


M.I.A.

by Popcornjones



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Afghanistan, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BAMF John, Bisexual John Watson, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Captain John Watson, Creepy Moriarty, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex, Gratuitous Smut, Hospital Sex, Hospitalization, Hurt John Watson, John Watson in Afghanistan, John in Afghanistan, John-centric, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Married Couple, Moriarty - Freeform, Moriarty Is A Dick, Moriarty was REAL, Moriarty's Web, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, Pining John, Poor John, Possessive Moriarty, Same-Sex Marriage, Shameless Smut, Smut, Top John Watson, Virgin Sherlock, sebastian moran - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9311024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones
Summary: John has been shot in Afghanistan. He's seriously injured and recovering in hospital...  but where is Sherlock? What could possibly keep him away from his beloved John? Especially when John needs him so much.





	1. Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Can I use a phone?" John asked. "I haven’t talked to my family since I was shot.” Where was Sherlock? He should be here by now. Was it possible that he didn’t know?

John didn’t remember much from the hospital in Afghanistan. They’d bypassed John’s own field hospital and taken him directly to Kandahar for surgery. As soon as he was stable, they'd shipped him out to Germany. 

John didn’t see why they couldn’t have just flown him directly to London. It was so close. 

He was surprised that Sherlock wasn’t already at the hospital in Germany. John estimated he had spent two days in Kandahar, more than enough time for Sherlock to get a flight and a hotel. AND make a good start on alienating the hospital staff...

Actually, it was a little surprising that Sherlock hadn’t rung the hospital in Kandahar. It wasn’t always easy to get through, but the hospital phone service was pretty reliable, John knew from experience. But maybe he couldn’t get through. Or maybe John had been out of it when Sherlock called and John just hadn’t gotten the message.

It would be more like Sherlock to have skyped the nurses’ station and bully them into pointing the camera at John, awake or not. John supposed he would have heard about that.

Mycroft had the satellite phone he’d given John GPS enabled so Mycroft could know where he was at any given time. Or at least where the phone was. It was supposed to put Sherlock’s mind at ease. John guessed it gave Mycroft something to say to Sherlock when he demanded to know where John was and what was happening. It’s not like Mycroft could say anything about troop movements or IED attacks and the like. Just basically “John is still in Afghanistan.” 

But Sherlock could - and did - text John on the sat phone whenever he felt like it. And they had a standing appointment twice a week to talk. Considering how upset Sherlock had been when John had been called up, John was scrupulous about replying to Sherlock as soon as he could. If he were in surgery or out in the field, he checked the phone first chance he got.

But the sat phone had been left behind when John was shot. He imagined Mycroft looking at his sat phone’s signal on a computer screen and thinking John was still with it. But that was ridiculous – Mycroft probably knew John had been shot before the bullet left his body. He CERTAINLY knew by the time John got to Kandahar. 

(John wouldn’t be surprised at all to discover that Mycroft had had him shot just to bring him home and shut Sherlock up. To be perfectly honest, John had considered shooting himself once or twice if it meant getting out of that godforsaken desert and back to London with his man.)

John both longed to and dreaded seeing Sherlock. John had broken their deal – Sherlock would resign himself to John being away and John would not get injured. He worried that Sherlock would be in a snit. John just didn’t have the wherewithall for that right now.

But it was moot because Sherlock wasn’t there. As overbearing as Sherlock could be, John had never felt insecure in their relationship. He’d never felt neglected.

John thought about asking for a phone. It would be so lovely to hear his man’s voice. But he was tired. And the morphine drip made him feel unpleasantly fuzzy. John let himself drift off to sleep. 

He dreamed of Afghanistan. Always Afghanistan. Laying on the sand wondering where everyone had gone. Wondering why he was lying down. He was supposed to be working. He should get up and help get the wounded get on the helicopters. He hadn’t finished triage yet, they needed him. There was gunfire, he could hear it, but he couldn’t really care about it. 

“Captain!? Captain!?” Someone was shouting in his face. One of those American mercs that were everywhere now. He was rifling John’s uniform. John wanted him to go away, leave him alone. He was tired. 

“Over here!?” He yelled and a woman joined the merc. She was RAF, thank god. Nothing like a British face when you’re down. It took a moment before John recognized her – she was one of the helicopter pilots that regularly moved patients in and out of his field hospital. She had some unwieldy Welsh name – Betsan or Blodwyn or something. Thank god her last name was ‘Davies.’

“Captain Watson!” She said. “Where were you hit?”

It took a moment for him to decipher her words. He’d been shot. Fuck. Sherlock was going to kill him. 

‘Pull it together, John,’ he told himself.

“Left shoulder” He said. She immediately started yanking at his body armor and quickly found blood. 

“Jesus, Watson.” She said. She started ordering the merc around and soon John had a pressure bandage on his shoulder. “We have to flip him. Captain - this is going to hurt.” She and the merc grabbed and pulled him in unison – and pain exploded through John’s body. He screamed - then tried to get a hold of himself. “Through and through.” She said and slapped a pressure bandage on his back. “You aren’t going to like this.” She told John, as if everything before this had been a walk in the park. There isn’t another stretcher, we’re going to have to carry you.” The merc loomed over him and then pulled on his good arm, trying to pick him up in a fireman’s hold. The explosion of pain engulfed him...

He came to on the helicopter. He’d been belted into one of the back seats. The big merc was sitting next to him, pressing on the wound. John's consciousness drifted away again.

He had a brief memory of being taken off the helicopter. Davies unstrapping him and passing him to a burly nurse in surgical scrubs. “Good luck, Captain.” She yelled. “You’re going to be fine.” Then John was lifted onto a gurney and he could see the sky as they ran him across the rooftop. It was a cloudless blue.

John woke slowly. His first thought was about how much he hated morphine – he couldn’t think straight. His second thought was that he needed more of it. His shoulder ached abominably, a feeling of having been torn apart inside - it had woken him up. He rallied his energy to open his eyes.

A nurse was standing over him. 

“Good morning, Captain Watson. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better. Nurse?” She hadn’t told him her name. 

“Abel.” She said. “Breakfast will be here shortly. How’s your appetite?”

“I don’t...erm...can I use a phone? I haven’t talked to my family since I was shot.” Where was Sherlock? He should be here by now. Was it possible that he didn’t know?

“I’ll see what I can scare up.” Abel said. “In the meantime, Captain, try and eat, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thank you. Abel? When will a doctor be by?” John felt a little miffed that he’d had to ask. Sherlock would have hunted John’s doctor down by now...

John managed some tea and porridge. It felt like lead in his stomach. John dozed a bit – morphine made him tired and gave him hallucinations, he couldn’t tell if he were awake or asleep and dreaming. He hated it. Then another nurse had come in and checked his bandages and taken his vitals. John admitted he was in some pain and she noted it. John would have to wait for the doctor to have it addressed.

About an hour after his breakfast tray was taken, Abel brought a chaplain to John’s room.

“This is Lieutenant Pilsworthy - Reverend Pilsworthy. He can help you reach your family.

“Thank you, Abel.” John said. “Reverend?”

“It’s good to meet you, Captain.” He pulled out a smart phone. “Do you want me to leave you alone with it, or would you prefer that I tell your family the news first.”

“I’d like to have it.” John said. 

Pilsworthy gave John the phone. “I’ll come back by in a while, see how you’re doing and if I can help at all.”

“Thank you, Reverend.” John turned the phone on and swiped to the keypad screen. He’d memorized several numbers before he’d left, he dialed Sherlock’s mobile first.

John got voicemail. “Sherlock, it’s me. I’m in Landstuhl Hospital - in Germany. Call me. Not on the sat phone, I lost it. I’m OK, just want to hear your voice.”

Then he texted. *This is John - I’ve borrowed a phone for a minute. Call me at landstuhl hosp, Germany. I miss u, idiot*

Sherlock professed to hate endearments, but John could see how it pleased him when he called him 'love.' And Sherlock didn't even pretend not to like 'idiot.'

John marshaled his energy and dialed Mrs. Hudson’s landline. 

“Hullo, Mrs. Hudson? It’s John.”

“John, dear! How wonderful. Are you back in London? Oh Sherlock will be so happy. He’s such a bear when you’re away...”

“No, erm, Mrs. Hudson, I’m in Germany - I’m trying to reach Sherlock. Is he around? Have you seen him?”

“Oh no, dear, Sherlock hasn’t been here in DAYS. I rather thought he was visiting you...”

“No, no, he’s not here. Could you ask him to call me? Not on my phone, tell him to call me at Landstuhl Hospital in Germany.”

“Hospital! Oh no, John, have you been wounded?”

“Yeah, I’ve been shot.”

“Oh, Dear, is it serious?”

“Serious enough, but I’ll recover.”

“Sherlock’s not going to like that!”

“I know - I’m looking forward to being yelled at. Honestly, Mrs. H. I’m starting to worry - I've been in hospital for three or four days and I haven’t heard from Sherlock at all.”

“Three or four days? That explains why Mycroft came by then - he tore through your flat like a hurricane. He asked me to call if I saw Sherlock - gave me a special number. And I think he has a car out front - what do they call it? ‘Staking out the place.’”

“Can you give me that number, Mrs. H.?”

“Oh, yes. Let me find it...”

John dialed the number Mrs. Hudson had given him. It rang exactly once.

“Have you seen him?” It was Mycroft. 

“Erm... no, Mycroft, I’m looking for him. Where is he?”

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m on my way to you now - I should be there in about two hours. We’ll talk then.”

“You’re scaring me, Mycroft.”

“You sound well, John. I understand your prognosis is excellent.”

“Yeah, ok, just get here.”

“Goodbye, John.”

Pilsworthy returned not long after. 

“You look troubled, Captain. Were you able to talk to your family?”

“No. Yes. I spoke to my brother-in-law and my landlady. But I couldn’t reach my husband.”

John saw the telltale rigidity that told him Pilsworthy didn’t approve of a man having a husband. Which was EXACTLY what John needed right now - homophobia.

“I’m starting to worry. This isn’t like him. He’s ALWAYS there when I call or text. Always.”

“What did your, erm, brother-in-law say?”

“Not much. I’ll talk to him again in a few hours. I hope he’ll know something then.” John lay back, exhausted. “Thanks for letting me use the phone.”

“Of course.” The chaplain said. He hesitated, visibly trying to swallow his discomfort. “How did you meet your husband, Captain?”

John smiled. This was what the man would ask any other wounded soldier - how did you meet your spouse. Pilsworthy was making an effort. And John found he DID want to talk about Sherlock.

“He was in another department at the hospital where I worked, he cut his hand rather badly. I was covering a shift in Emergency Care, so I stitched it up for him. He was charming and brilliant and it was a slow night so we talked for a long while. He said he knew a great place for breakfast and he took me to a flat where three latina women were making tamales, hundreds of tamales. They greeted him like an old friend and gave us as many tamales as we could eat.” John smiled at the memory. “After that, he came around regularly, just to say hello or to invite me along with him for a meal or somewhere interesting... I never regretted going with him, always an adventure.”


	2. Utterly Terrified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pressed his face against John’s hair, then closer to his ear. “I’ve just made several deductions.” He murmured.
> 
> John turned his head. “Yes?” 
> 
> Sherlock’s lips were at his temple, he felt him press a kiss into his skin. “Deduction one: I’m falling in love with you, John. Two: I’ve wanted you since the moment I first saw you. Three: I am utterly terrified.”

John hadn’t realized they were ‘dating.’ He’d never dated a man before - never even considered it. John didn’t know if Sherlock had been trying to woo him from the start or if, like John, he was halfway there before he grasped what was going on. 

One morning as he finished his shift, six months or so after he'd they'd first met, Sherlock appeared and said he’d found a new breakfast place. He took John to an old warehouse. John looked at it dubiously, but he didn’t question Sherlock. They climbed a ladder to the roof - where there was a magnificent view of the Thames. Sherlock had pastries, fruit and cheese and a thermos of hot tea (with a little sachet of milk for John’s). They ate and watched the sun rise. It was beautiful. John stood up for a better look at the water and he’d shivered in the wind. Sherlock had come to stand behind John and wrapped his long arms around him. John relaxed into the embrace, feeling warm and unexpectedly happy.

Sherlock pressed his face against John’s hair, then closer to his ear. “I’ve just made several deductions.” He murmured.

John turned his head. “Yes?” 

Sherlock’s lips were at his temple, he felt him press a kiss into his skin. “Deduction one: I’m falling in love with you, John. Two: I’ve wanted you since the moment I first saw you. Three: I am utterly terrified.” He paused for a brief moment, but started speaking again before John could reply. “It’s possible I should have realized some of these things sooner. I’ve been slow recently. I can’t account for it.” 

John had stepped out of Sherlock’s arms during this speech and turned to look at him. Sherlock stood there, naked vulnerability on his face, while John tried to marshal his racing thoughts into words. 

“John if you don’t say something soon, I’ll be forced to jump off this roof.”

“Oh....erm, is that your line for everyone you bring up here?” John asked lightly. “It’s very romantic, I bet it works pretty well for you.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “The only other time I’ve been here I was with a Detective Inspector, a Detective Sergeant and a rather odious crime scene investigator. Four men had been murdered right over there...” Sherlock pointed at a spot ten meters or so from where they stood. “...execution-style. Romance was far from my mind.” 

“You serious?” John saw that he was. “You, erm, know I’m not gay, right.” 

Sherlock looked him up and down intently. “I know that you’re a good marksman from your sleeve and that you can handle yourself in a fight from your feet. I know that you ate tuna on rye and ginger nuts on your break. Your mother is ill and, I’m sorry to say, unlikely to improve. You’re seeing a woman, but you aren’t serious about her - nor she you. You played rugby at University and regret losing your fitness in medical school. You’ve recently begun an exercise scheme that involves trail running and ropes courses. You thrive on adventure and run TOWARDS danger - you tell yourself it’s because you want to help, but really you need the thrill. Forget anesthesiology, John - you’re better suited to emergency care or trauma surgery. And of course, OF COURSE, I know you’re predominantly heterosexual, John, but if I didn’t have a chance with you, I would have long ago resigned myself to a friendship that would mean more to me than to you. But when we’re together you often show several of the signs of male sexual arousal, you are comfortable with casual touching with me that you shrink from with others - you let me put my arms around you just now - and your defensiveness shows you’re just as terrified by this as I am.”

John opened his mouth to speak...then closed it again. He’d seen Sherlock do this before, many times - read a person or a place. It made perfect sense that NSY would want him to consult at crime scenes. John had wondered occasionally what Sherlock had deduced about him, but hadn’t expected it to be quite so wide-ranging and ...accurate. Or so personal. 

“You’re right about everything else,” John finally said. “So I’ll.... I’ll trust you know what you’re talking about on that last bit.” 

“I’m sorry about your mother, John.”

John nodded. “Thanks.” He had no idea how Sherlock could possibly know about his mother - or any of it. Maybe later - when he could think properly - he’d ask. He chewed on his lip and studied the taller man.

“What are you thinking, John.” Sherlock asked after a minute. “I can’t tell.”

John blinked. “I, erm, I was wondering what it would feel like to kiss you.”

Sherlock brightened. In one swift movement, he stepped up to John and took his face between both of his hands. He hesitated for just a second then leaned in and gently pressed his lips to John’s. 

It felt electric. John pulled Sherlock in a bit closer and slipped his tongue between Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock deepened the kiss tentatively, letting John lead. John kissed him thoroughly, noting the roughness of Sherlock’s stubble, the lushness of his full mouth, the strength in his hands, his height ...all so different from kissing a woman. 

Finally he pushed Sherlock gently away and took a second to catch his breath. “I though I should try it before deciding one way or the other.” John said.

“Oh.” Sherlock’s face fell slightly. “What’s the verdict?”

“I don’t know.” John flexed his hands, trying to grab hold of a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ in the swirling confusion in his brain. “I....erm...this isn’t something I ever expected. I’m having a little trouble ...I’m ...confused. Can I sleep on it?”

“Of course. Take as much time as you need.”

“I’m off tomorrow. We could meet for lunch and talk.”

Sherlock looked relieved. “Yes, I’d like that. Angelo’s?”

“No, somewhere more private. Why don’t you come to my place – I can write down the address.”

“Just tell me, I’ll remember.”

John chuckled. “Of course.” He recited the address for Sherlock.

“I’ll bring takeaway.” Sherlock said. 

“That would be great.” John said, remembering he had no food in the flat other than beer, tea and instant ramen. “OK...erm... see you tomorrow.” And John had retreated to the ladder and climbed down the side of the warehouse.

John found he was exhausted. Shifts for interns were brutal – John had worked 20 hours straight. As he dragged himself home, he felt like his body was just shutting down. He went straight to bed.

He woke to his alarm at 15:00. He’d set it to keep himself from sleeping straight through to 20:00 and being awake all night. He had a wash and put the kettle on for tea, hoping to perk himself up a bit. Normally, John would turn on the little telly or surf the internet on his laptop. But the telly was annoying and his ancient laptop was slow. He got dressed and took a walk. On the spur of the moment he took the Underground out to where his mother was staying. It took two changes and a longish walk, but eventually John got to the care home where she lived.

“Mum.”

“John! I didn’t expect you today.” John visited weekly and called every few days. His sister claimed she visited regularly, and John really hoped she did. He never asked mum.

“I had a day off.” He said, kissing her. “Thought I’d come see how you were faring.” She asked John about work and he told her about the surgeries he’d assisted on recently. She told John the gossip around the home – who had gone to hospice, who was rallying, who had died outright. It was gallows humor, but it suited her and it suited John.

He read to her for a while from the newspaper and they chatted about the articles. 

Then John said, “I’ve met someone.”

“Someone special?”

“Maybe.” John said. “I mean, yes, very special, but I’m not sure what to do.”

“You don’t need the sex talk again? I know your dad didn’t cover much...”

John laughed. “No, mum.” His laughter fell away suddenly. “He’s a man. It’s taken me by surprise, I have to say, that I’m considering... dating him, I guess. But he’s, erm, he’s exceptional.”

John’s mum didn’t blink .“Exceptional! Sounds interesting.” Of course she didn’t blink, she’d already been through this with Harry.

“He is.”

“Bring him by to meet me then, John.” She patted his arm. “You’ll make the right decision.”

“Thanks, Mum.” John wondered what it would be.

 

\---

 

Sherlock rang the bell at half twelve exactly. He looked terrible, his skin was ashen and there were dark maroon smudges under his eyes. He was dressed and groomed as impeccably as ever, but the overall impression was of a man who couldn’t rest his thoughts long enough to rest his body. 

He looked around the tiny apartment with dull curiosity, his eyes everywhere but on John. “I brought Chinese.” And he had – cartons and cartons of Chinese, enough to feed John for days.

“Did you order the whole menu?” John asked as they set them out on the counter. Sherlock shrugged and smiled. John knew that everyone and everything was transparent to this man, but he hadn’t known that meant Sherlock knew he didn’t have cash for groceries. He’s been feeding me all along, John realized, not certain if he were grateful, offended, or just hideously embarrassed.

Covering his consternation, John pulled a couple beers out of the fridge and set them on the counter with plates and the chopsticks. “I don’t have a dining table. I usually sit on the couch and eat off the coffee table. Or we could sit on the floor.”

“Couch is fine.” Sherlock said.

“Are you OK?” John asked laying a hand on Sherlock’s arm.”You look like you haven’t slept.” 

Sherlock smiled at the touch, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I haven’t.” He said. “If nothing else, I’ve learned some things from this experience.”

“Like what?” John asked handing him a plate.

“Regret.” Sherlock said lightly. “If I hadn’t spoken, I’d still be assured of your friendship.” He scooped rice onto his plate. “I’ve never second-guessed myself before. It’s .... torment.”

“Well.” John said, taking Sherlock’s plate out of his hand and setting it aside. “Let me put you out of your misery then.”

Sherlock studied his face anxiously. John thought he must be telegraphing his feelings, but Sherlock seemed unable to see them. Or unable to process what he saw. 

“You ARE assured of my friendship, Sherlock. You don’t have to worry about that ever.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s face fell. “Thank you.” He busied himself opening cartons of Chinese. “John, I’d appreciate it we didn’t speak of this again - pretend it never happened....”

“Sherlock...” John touched his arm, felt him shiver. “Sherlock: 'yes.'”

Sherlock turned back to John but kept his eyes down. His face was pinched with misery. “John...” He started to protest. 

John gripped his arm firmly. “Shut up and listen to me for a minute, Sherlock. I’m saying ‘yes.’ Yes, I want to be with you. I can’t promise anything, but I want to try.”

“Yes?” Sherlock finally made eye contact as he searched John’s face for confirmation.

“Yes, you idiot. Come here.” John pulled the taller man into his arms. Sherlock clung to him and John could feel his shuddering exhale. “Hey.” John said. “Kiss me.”

Sherlock pulled back and his face shone with happiness - he looked like a different person from the gray, downcast man of a moment ago.

John touched his cheek, slid his hand around Sherlock’s neck, into his hair and pulled him into a kiss.

Sherlock was again tentative. In the future there would be urgency, passion – hard, hungry kisses as they devoured each other. But now it was sweet and languorous.

“Would it be ridiculous if I swooned?” Sherlock whispered.

“No. But I’d probably drop you. Best keep your wits about you.”

“I don’t seem able...”

John kissed him again, liking how Sherlock pressed against him breathlessly, trembling in his arms. “Still second-guessing yourself?” He asked.

“I’m amazed that I had the courage to speak...”

“I’m glad you did.” John said. Then his stomach growled and he laughed. 

Sherlock stepped back. “Let’s eat.” He said picking up his plate, but slow to let go of John with his other hand. “I’m hungry too.” 

“You’ve been taking care of me on the sly for months.” John said opening a carton of fried rice. “I guess now you can do it officially. Within reason.”

Sherlock smiled happily, his eyes bright. They filled their plates and John led them to the couch. Sherlock slipped his shoes off and, pulling his knees to his chest, tucked his toes under John’s thigh. John rested his hand on Sherlock’s ankle for a moment.

“This is all... new to me.” John said. “You don’t mind if we take it slowly?”

“I don’t mind, no.”

“What about you?” John asked, picking up a cube of tofu with his chopsticks. “Have you only dated men before? Or have you dated women?”

Sherlock looked up from his plate, something like surprise on his face. “Oh. Erm, no. I haven’t... that is to say, I’ve never been interested in that sort of thing. Until now, of course.”

“Are you saying you’ve never been with ...anyone?”

“Yes.”

“No one? Male or female?”

“No. No one.”

John thought for a second, then turned back to Sherlock. “To be clear, are you saying that you’re a virgin?”

“Obviously.” 

“But not for lack of opportunity, certainty.”

“It wasn’t interesting to me, John. I didn’t see a need for it.”

“But now you do?”

“Yes.”

“Why? What changed?”

Sherlock looked at John as if he were being particularly dense.

“Me?” John asked, surprised.

“Yes.”

“But.... why me? Seriously, Sherlock, why me? You could have just about anyone.”

“I don’t want anyone else. I’ve never wanted anyone else.”

John stared at him uncomprehendingly. “But why ME?”

“You’re magnificent.” Sherlock said happily.

“Erm, thank you... but I’m just a regular bloke.”

“No, John. You stood out from the regular blokes immediately.”

John glanced at Sherlock uncertainly. “How?”

“I saw you in Emergency Care one night. There was a man threatening one of the patients. You stepped up and .... he was down...” Sherlock twisted his hand in the air to demonstrate. “...just like that. The way you had done it was so clever, so efficient. By the time security got there, you were treating his injuries - he was doing whatever you told him to. You made it seem effortless.”

“I got in trouble for that - I broke his wrist.”

“It was... glorious.” Sherlock said. “I looked for you after that. When I cut my hand, I wasn’t even annoyed because I thought, ‘here is my excuse to talk to that doctor.’”

“So you were stalking me.” John teased.

Sherlock shrugged. “I wanted to get to know you.” He ate a bite of shrimp. “I didn’t recognize that I... I wanted you until later. Then I felt ...inadequate ... I had no idea what to do. It just felt good to be with you. On the roof yesterday, I put my arms around you, and it made me... unreasonably happy. It was beyond friendship, beyond desire... the only thing it could be was... love..”

John smiled and leaned over to kiss him lightly. Sherlock accepted it with amazement on his face. “So, neither one of us has experience.” John said.

“I did some research when I realized I was interested in sex with you. It was ...illuminating.” Sherlock saw John’s expression. “Of course, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“You really HAVEN’T had a relationship before!” John laughed. “You ALWAYS have to do things you don’t want to.”

It was three weeks before they consummated their union. Partly due to the rigours of being a surgical intern - John’s schedule was daunting and he spent a lot of his time off work trying to catch up on sleep. But they were motivated to make the best of it. 

They’d spent a lot of their time together snogging – taking things slowly, getting used to each other. John had only felt his desire grow – Sherlock was beautiful. Lean and pale with long legs and arms, his chest a hairless expanse with tight little rosebud nipples. John liked the long muscles of his thighs, the gracefulness of his movements, how his cheeks would pink when he was aroused. John was convinced he’d made the right decision. 

Even more convinced when Sherlock had pushed him back onto the sofa, unfastened his trousers and blown him. He was definitely a novice, but he’d studied up on the internet. And he had boundless enthusiasm for the task – he seemed to enjoy it as much as John.

Afterward Sherlock sat next to John looking very pleased with himself. John pulled him close and kissed him.

“Mmmmmm...” John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Let me take care of you now.” He said fumbling with the button on Sherlock’s trousers.

“Oh John, you’re so tired.” Sherlock stroked his hair. “I take forever. You should relax.”

John laughed. “No way.” He said. “Take your trousers off.” And he sprang up from the couch and ran out of the room. He was back quickly with a damp flannel, a blanket and a small tube. Sherlock’s arms welcomed him. 

John kissed Sherlock again. He removed his own trousers and, wearing only his red pants, sat back down. “Here, next to me.” He commanded, and arranged Sherlock so they were lying chest to chest. He buried his face in Sherlock’s beautiful, ivory neck for a moment, then kissed him again. 

“You’re SO hard.” John said, fondling Sherlock through his pants. 

“John, it really does take a very long time for me to ...reach climax.” Sherlock said. “You don’t have to...”

“Shut up.” John told him levering himself up onto his elbow and caressing Sherlock’s side. “You’re going to do exactly what I say. Here, raise your knee up.” He pulled Sherlock’s thigh upright to spread his legs and ran his hand up his calf and down his hamstring, resting it on Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock shivered.

“You like that, don’t you?” John said, kissing Sherlock’s long, lovely neck.

“Yes.”

John stretched his other hand up into Sherlock’s dark curls, took a handful and tugged lightly. Sherlock moaned. “Now.” John said. “Pull out your cock. Show me.”

Sherlock complied, pushing his pants low on his hips. He touched himself tentatively. 

“Let me see.” John watched as Sherlock ran his fist up and down his shaft. “God, you’re hot.” John kissed him, a passionate kiss that lasted. Then he reached back for the tube of lubricant. “Hold out your hand.” John said. He spilled out a generous pool of lube. “Now stroke it.” 

He kissed Sherlock again. “Slowly. Stroke it slowly.” John slipped his hand between Sherlock’s legs and cupped his bollocks.

“Oh, John.” Sherlock sighed. 

John brushed his fingers across Sherlock’s perineum. “Has anyone ever touched you here?” He asked.

Sherlock moaned and stroked himself harder. “No!” He gasped. 

John kissed his lips again then kissed along his jaw and down his neck. He tongued one of the pink nipple buds and Sherlock groaned louder. 

“I loved how you sucked my cock.” John whispered and slipped a finger past the perineum to massage Sherlock’s tightly puckered hole.

“John!” Sherlock jerked forwards but John held him back with the fistful of hair. “Oh!” Sherlock gasped at the sensation.

John pulled his hand up to where Sherlock was working his shaft. He swiped a drop of precum from the tip and licked it off his hand. Then he rubbed his fingers in the lubricant on Sherlock’s cock and reached back down to finger his hole. 

Sherlock shivered and moaned as John teased the sensitive area. “I think you like that, Sherlock.” He said. He pushed the tip of his finger into the ring of muscle, feeling it contract around him. “Do you like that?” John demanded.

“Yes! Oh!” Sherlock was jacking his cock hard now.

“Do you like having me inside you?” He whispered, kissing Sherlock’s face and fucking his hole with the tip of his finger.

“Yes!” Sherlock was straining to open his legs wider, to allow John greater access. “John!”

John pushed farther in and pulled out, then again and again. “Are you thinking about having my cock in your arse?” John nuzzled Sherlock’s neck and tugged at his hair as he frigged Sherlock’s arsehole. “Are you thinking about me fucking you?”

“Yes! Oh!” Sherlock suddenly shuddered and shot, the cum spurting onto his chest, a look of surprise on his face. “John! Oh John! Oh!”

“You’re so beautiful.” John said, tugging at his hair again and kissing his neck. He trailed his fingers through ejaculate as Sherlock trembled and spasmed.

“Mmmm...that took FOREVER...” John teased, still nibbling under Sherlock’s jaw.

“This is - OH!... unprecedented, I assure you.” Sherlock rested his slick hand on his abdomen self-consciously as he shivered through the final stages of his climax.

“Mmm... maybe it’s easier when you have a little help.” He kissed the full lips.

“That’s - oh... an interesting thesis...” Sherlock panted. “I’ll have to - ah!...run some tests...”

“Experiments?”

“Oh yes, this requires closer study.” He finally lay still, relaxing against the couch cushions. John grabbed the flannel, still warm and damp, and wiped Sherlock’s chest and groin gently. Then he pulled the blanket over them and nestled himself against his lover.

“I will always take care of you.” He mumbled. 

Sherlock held him close. “And I’ll always take care of you, John.” He said as John drifted into sleep.

 

\----

 

Everything was going well. Until it wasn’t.

Although Sherlock’s flat was larger and nicer in every way, they usually slept at John’s – it was so much closer to the hospital. They traded luxury for 30 more minutes in bed together.

John was working days that week, they met for dinner every evening when John was off. That night, they’d gone directly to John’s flat. Sherlock opened wine and John made spaghetti. It was still hard to keep their hands off each other – Sherlock was standing in the small kitchen accepting kisses as John passed.

John handed him silverware. “Go sit down.” He said nodding at the sofa. “I’ll bring our plates in a minute.”

Sherlock had obeyed, but got fidgety almost immediately. He looked through some of John’s books and fiddled with his iPod. Then he took John’ s calendar off the wall and studied it. 

He’d done this before. John wrote out his shifts two weeks in advance – his way of keeping track. Sherlock would memorize it quickly and replace the calendar on it’s hook. 

But that night, he kept hold of it. “What’s this?” He asked John. 

John had finally gotten their spaghetti on plates and was bringing them over. “What?” He asked, sitting next to Sherlock – closer than was strictly necessary, but not as close as he wanted to be.

“This.” Sherlock had the calendar flipped to two months hence. “You have two weeks blocked out in March and two more in June.”

“Oh, that. I’ll be in Northumberland those weeks for training. Here, eat.”

Sherlock set the calendar aside and picked up his plate. “What sort of training? Like a conference?”

“No – basic training, officers’ training – the army condenses some of the training for interns. It would be impossible to do both – and the medical training is paramount, of course. But there are facilities in London so I can shoot and get into shape.”

Sherlock stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“The army, Sherlock. When I finish my internship, I’ll be stationed at an army hospital. You know that.”

“No, John... I didn’t know that.” Sherlock said flatly.

“Of course you do – we’ve talked about it.” John began to eat, but Sherlock set his plate down. “I told you I went to medical school on a military scholarship.”

“I didn’t realize that meant you would work for them.”

“Why else would they pay for it? Sherlock, my uniform is in the closet, you’ve seen it. You, of all people, know what to deduce from that. It’s elementary.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He sat still, withdrawing into himself. John put his plate down. “Does it make a difference?” He asked. “If I’m a soldier? I didn’t think you were a pacifist.”

Sherlock’s eyes blazed – he finally looked at John. “Why?” He asked. 

“Why what? Why did I join the army?”

“Yes.”

“Because I couldn’t afford medical school. Because I like the idea of traveling, working in different parts of the world. According to you, I run towards danger – of course being a soldier appealed to me. And I CAN help people.”

Sherlock sat frozen in place, like a statue or a stone. 

“What are you thinking?” John asked finally.

Sherlock wouldn’t make eye contact. “You’re going to die.” He said. “You’re going to go far away and you’re going to be shot and I won’t know that it happened.”

“That’s a little dramatic.” John said. “If I’m stationed abroad at all, it won’t be for years, yet.”

“Maybe Mycroft could pull some strings...”

“No.” John said. “No.”

“No, John, he COULD – he’s powerful. He could make sure you’re stationed in England. He could get you discharged! We wouldn’t have to worry about it at all!”

“NO!” John shouted. Sherlock stared at him shocked – John had stood up at some point, he didn’t remember doing it. “Sherlock, I FORBID you to ask Mycroft to do any such thing. I am a soldier. I am going to serve. If I’m sent abroad, we will deal with it together. If I’m shot, we will deal with it together.”

“And if you’re killed?”

“You’ll have to deal with that on your own.” John immediately regretted the joke. “I’m sorry. Sherlock, that wasn’t funny.” He sat back down next to his lover. “I worry about YOU out there, you know, chasing murderers – chasing after that serial killer last month, the one that gave you that machete wound on your forearm. MACHETE, Sherlock. He could have chopped you into bits. But I didn’t ask that you stop. I would never ask that of you, ask you to change. Please extend me the same courtesy.”

“If you loved me you wouldn’t do this.”

John threw up his hands. “It’s DONE, Sherlock. It was done years before we met. It has nothing to do with how much I love you. And I DO love you.”

“Do you?” He asked sharply. “DO you love me, John? You hide our relationship. You pretend we’re just friends at work. You’re terrified that strangers will think you’re gay. And you drool over women CONSTANTLY. I’m your dirty secret.” Sherlock sprang up and paced the small room.

“What are you talking about? You’re not a dirty secret. You’re my boyfriend – I introduced you to my mum, for chrissakes.”

“You hide it at work.”

“I don’t! I invited you to that work party and you didn’t want to go.”

“It sounded boring.”

“It WAS boring. But everyone would have known we were together.”

“You could just tell them.”

“We don’t talk about personal stuff at work – it’s not professional. Unless it’s a mate, like Mike, and I DID tell him.” 

“What about the women?!”

“What women?”

“You ogled that girl downstairs...”

“What girl?” John was confused.

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember. You tripped over yourself to get a better look at her tits.”

“Please, you’re not jealous because I looked at a nice pair of tits.”

“Not a pair. You look at ALL OF THEM. Every reasonably attractive woman in your path, you stare at her breasts for an average of 1.2 seconds.”

“Because THAT’S WHAT MEN DO!” John yelled. 

“That’s what heterosexual men do.” Sherlock said.

“Until very recently, I was a heterosexual man, Sherlock. I’ve spent most of my life as a heterosexual man. I find women attractive. I LIKE TITS! That doesn’t mean I don’t like YOU. Arguably, it means I like YOU better, I gave up tits for you.” John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Sherlock, let’s not argue. I’m too tired to argue.”

“Then I’d best let you get some sleep.” Sherlock began to jam his feet into his shoes angrily.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving.” Sherlock shoved his arms into his coat and flipped it onto his shoulders with a flourish.

“Jesus, Sherlock, stop being such a fucking drama queen.”

“Be careful – use the lingo, someone might suspect you’re queer.”

“Sherlock!” John grabbed his arm, held him, just before he reached the door.

“Why didn’t you tell me, John!?” Sherlock cried, anguished.

I DID! It’s been staring you in the face for months. If you really didn’t know, it’s because you didn’t WANT to know.

Sherlock’s cheeks were red with fury. “Let me go, John. There’s nothing for me here.”

“I’M here.”

“Yes.”

John stared at Sherlock for a long moment. Then he released him. “If that’s the way you want it.” He said and turned his back. 

Sherlock left carefully closing the door behind him. John picked up Sherlock’s untouched plate of spaghetti and hurled it across the room.


	3. Nuntius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John survives another day – barely.

It was dark. John's shoulder was agony. 

The doctor, a lugubrious American, had assured John that he was healing well. When the bullet had ripped through him, his lung had been punctured, he'd suffered internal bleeding and his shoulder had all but been destroyed – ribs, clavicle, scapula, humerus all affected, some shattered. In Kandahar, they'd stopped the bleeding, repaired the lung and they'd removed shards of shattered bone. Then they had reconstructed John's shoulder, using metal plates screwed into the pieces of bone to hold it together. They'd left the humerus and the scapula to knit back together on their own, but Dr. Snyder was encouraging John to consider having the scapula screwed to a metal plate as well - it would be another surgery, but it would speed the bone healing and ensure it fused again properly. He would be in hospital at least three more days - five or six with a second surgery. John would have to wear a sling for at least six weeks and have extensive physical therapy to rebuild muscle, regain strength and range of motion in the shoulder. It was possible John would need more surgery down the line to repair tendons and nerve tissue that had been damaged, it depended on how they healed. Dr. Snyder was concerned about infection. 

The man seemed perfectly competent, if uninspiring. He treated John more like a colleague than a patient. Perhaps he treated all his patients that way. 

John had told Snyder how much he loathed morphine and they'd discussed pain management ... but right now his shoulder felt ripped in half. He needed his pain managed. He needed the pain managed immediately. He couldn't find the morphine pump. It was too dark. John heard himself groaning. He tried to regulate his breathing, help manage the pain that way. He ended up panting shallowly. He pushed the button to call a nurse and white knuckled the 90 seconds it took him to arrive.

"Captain? What can I get you?" The nurse asked.

"I'm in a lot of pain." John gritted. Sherlock would have NEVER let this happen, John thought bitterly. Maybe they'd been apart too long, Sherlock had moved on, stopped wanting him.... it was John's fault. Sherlock had known from the start that this wouldn't work, the soldier and the civilian. He'd tried to tell him, but John hadn't listened. 

"Captain?" The nurse.

"Sorry, what?"

"Your morphine pump malfunctioned, Captain. I've put it right, you should feel it soon."

"Ta." He said distractedly.

Then John COULD feel it - the tide slowly coming in, small waves of numbness washing over his consciousness. Each one making Sherlock feel farther away. 

"Thank you... nurse." John mumbled. His shoulder was detaching from his body and floating away. It upset him - John needed his shoulder. But there was too much fighting, it was too much...John couldn't carry it all. The fighters weighed down his arms, pinned him to the bed. He was suffocating, drowning, in the armloads of soldiers. 

'I'M a soldier.' He realized. He was one of them, one of the contentious little figures he couldn't encompass ...

John woke again to bright light. It was sharp, a pure white presence in his room. He opened himself up to it...

Opening his eyes was disorienting. There were figures in the light dancing madly. He squinted at them, willing them away before they engulfed him like the soldiers had...

Mycroft was peering down at him, his mouth pursed fussily. 

"Mycroft?" John asked. Why was Mycroft in the light? They were dancing all over him!

Mycroft was speaking. John concentrated on the words... but the light was too distracting.... it was so bright it hummed. John couldn't hear anything over the humming. It made him sleepy...

Mycroft was touching him...that was novel, had Mycroft ever touched him? Why was he here? Oh right, Sherlock didn't love him anymore. He'd sent Mycroft to take care of John... but John didn't want Mycroft... he felt sadness overwhelm the pleasant numb feeling. The sadness was louder than the light, it was full of little figures - too many, too much! More than the light dancers more than the warring soldiers, SO MANY! They were everywhere, taunting him lewdly, exposing themselves and laughing at him, covering John with their threats and nasty laughter...he tried to hold them all in his arms, but he couldn't, there were too many... they overran John, made him part of the bed, turned him into the landscape...

John slowly floated up through the layers of blackness. He could tell when he got towards the top because it was lighter. There were sounds - hospital sounds, he realized. That was comforting, John was used to the sounds in hospital. He reached the top and found it contained his body. He inhabited his body, feeling his lungs inflate, his heart beating, feeling his fingers and legs, a dull ache in his left shoulder, feeling air entering his mouth and nose, opening his eyes...

It was day. The light was off in his room but afternoon sun streamed through the window. Light - and noise - from the hallway penetrated the other side of the room.

"You're awake." Mycroft said.

John turned his head and saw him. He sat by the bed, a laptop set up on the table in front of him. He removed his glasses and stood.

"Hello, Mycroft." John moved his limbs experimentally, relieved it didn't stir up hallucinations. The memory of the small horrible figures overrunning him... he shook it off and fumbled for the bed controls. He manipulated the bed so he was sitting up. It hurt, but the pain wasn't overwhelming.

He focused in Mycroft. "What happened?"

"You were given an overdose of morphine. The hospital claims the pump malfunctioned."

"It was malfunctioning last night." John told him. "I wasn't getting any. There was a nurse...he said it was clogged. He fixed it."

Mycroft glanced up significantly and John saw several of his operatives by the door. "Can you describe the nurse?"

"Male, white, mid-twenties to mid-thirties, average height, athletic build, dressed like all the nurses ...erm, bald with dark fringe."

Mycroft nodded and one of the operatives disappeared. 

"I remember seeing you." John said.

Mycroft smiled. It was free of all happiness. "Yes. I was delayed at the airport, but fortuitously not long enough for the morphine to kill you."

John nodded. Mycroft had saved his life, he felt highly ambivalent about that - very happy to be alive, not at all happy to owe Mycroft so much. “Where is he?” He asked.

"I don't know."

"Maybe he just... doesn't want to be here." John felt miserable, but he had to know.

"John." Mycroft tutted. "Don't be ridiculous. We both know very well that NOTHING would keep Sherlock away if he were free to come."

"Yeah." John said, somewhat reassured. "What's happened to him, then? You don't think he's..."

"Dead? No." Mycroft pulled his chair closer to the bed and sat down. "Sherlock paid me a visit at my club last week - roughly twelve hours before I got the news you'd been injured."

"Did he tell you what he was doing?"

"No. Not directly. He did say he had something on and he seemed excited about it - you know how he gets." Mycroft sighed. "While he was there he pickpocketed my phone. I found it in your flat when I went looking for him - he'd installed an app on it, one used for encrypted communications. A fingerprint AND a twelve digit password are required to open the app and to receive messages. It's like texting, except the texts disappear after you look at them."

"Yeah, ok. Why do you think he put that on your phone - so he could message you secretly from wherever he is?"

"No, so you could. He left one message in the app for me - 'J would get a kick out of this.'"

"A kick?" That didn't sound like Sherlock at all.

He must be watching American telly again. Mycroft said aghast.

Mycroft's operative returned and whispered in his ear. "There wasn't a male nurse on duty last night in this ward." Mycroft told John. "It's possible someone was making an attempt on your life. It's possible even a second attempt."

John stared at the man. "Are you serious?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Depends what Sherlock has gotten mixed up in, doesn't it."

"Give me the app." John said.

Mycroft pulled a smartphone from his pocket and handed it to John. "It's called 'Nuntius.' You'll have to set it up with your fingerprints and password before you can use it." Mycroft looked at his watch. "I need to get back to London." He said. "I'm leaving Stanley and Dougan here - IF someone IS trying to kill you, they'll keep you safe."

"Mycroft, take me to London! I can't stay here. Not when Sherlock needs me!"

"John, you're not ready to leave hospital."

"There are hospitals in London!"

"And what are the chances you'll stay there if you thought you could find Sherlock? No, my brother would never forgive me if I let you endanger yourself that way."

"Mycroft !" John protested.

"And you'd be AWOL. Try and contact him through 'Nuntius.' If you need my help, call the number Mrs. Hudson gave you - it's private." Mycroft stood up. "Your doctor assures me you're doing well, John. You'll get the best care possible."

"You're leaving? Mycroft?"

"Stanley and Dougan are here for you, John. Goodbye."

John fumed. He couldn't believe Mycroft was leaving him behind! Nurse Abel came in to help John to the toilet and give him a sponge bath. He fumed through the whole ordeal. He insisted on shaving even though his shoulder was becoming increasingly insistent and he was starting to get hungry. After another nurse had changed his linen - under Stanley's strict supervision - she helped him back to the bed. John had to push the button for more morphine - they'd given him a new pump - it still made him nervous since the 'accidental' overdose. Not to mention how much he hated the hallucinations. For once, he managed to get the balance right - it numbed his pain enough without conjuring a thousand gyrating figures to overwhelm him. 

Dinner was delivered on a tray. John surveyed the curry wurst and chips dubiously. He felt sad all of a sudden... he missed Mycroft! That was unexpected, he'd NEVER felt sentimental about Mycroft before. He felt incredibly uncomfortable.

He was homesick. That's what it was. In Afghanistan, he missed Sherlock desperately, missed London and their life together, but most of the time John was busy. Insanely busy in his understaffed field hospital. And when he wasn't, he could text and talk with Sherlock on the sat phone. There was a picture of the two of them pinned to the wall by his bunk - the only photo in which they actually looked like the happy couple they were. Harry had taken it, she'd cajoled them into holding hands. They'd looked at each other and laughed and she'd snapped the picture. She gave it to John right before he shipped out.

John had none of that here. Just pain and boredom and worry. 

He ate some of the dinner. Dr. Snyder stopped by and checked his shoulder. Then Abel changed the bandages. 

The entire time, Stanley lurked near the door, watching everything. He was a big man, blond and broad with a slavic look. John thought he was attractive... which just underlined how lonely John was. He wondered if Stan played cards...

John dozed. The bloody morphine made him sleepy. Slowly, as the evening wore on, the ache in his shoulder increased along with his wits. He examined the smart phone. 

"I'll wait in the hall until you're done, Captain Watson." Stanley said. "No one will come in."

"Thank you, Stan."

John activated the phone and opened Nuntius. He started the set-up protocol, letting it learn his fingerprint (not his index finger, another finger would throw off anyone trying to break into the app - and 'give them the finger' John thought with grim satisfaction). He set a random number/letter combination for the password and spent a minute memorizing it. Nuntius offered another layer of protection – a retina scan using the phone's camera. John set it up. He had to choose a username, something Sherlock would recognize. What would Sherlock expect him to use? Not his name, of course. Sherlock didn't have a pet name for him. Not 'Captain,' 'Doctor' or 'soldier.' All too obvious.

Not 'Hamish.' Sherlock knew he hated 'Hamish.'

The night before he shipped out, he'd made love to Sherlock. In a few hours, John would leave for three years, but at that moment they were together. Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder, John held him tightly, stroked his hair. Sherlock had reached over to the night stand and picked up John's dog tags. 

"I don't like this number." Sherlock had said. "It isn't you."

"It's just a number."

Sherlock had lain quietly for a moment, running his thumb over the raised numbers and letters on the metal discs. "When you come back, I'll never think of this number again. I'll delete it." Sherlock said. Then, more quietly. "You have to come back, John."

John kissed him. "No one can stop me."

John typed his military number into the app.

The phone chirped immediately. John had a message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stan & Dougan are a little tribute to Androsjanicek's wonderful 'The Red Letter Cases of Sherlock Holmes.' A set of four stories. READ IT! It's not what you expect, but it's beautiful. Stanley would watch over John better than anyone.
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/series/356852


	4. Domestic Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock solves a case!

John didn't see Sherlock after he'd summarily left John's flat, upset about John's future career in the army. Sometimes at hospital, John THOUGHT he saw Sherlock - at the end of a hall or out of the corner of his eye. But when he turned to look, Sherlock wasn't there. It was just wishful thinking.

He was unhappy about the end of the relationship - very unhappy. He considered ringing Sherlock or trying to find him in his lab at hospital, but John wasn't willing to even consider quitting the army (if that were even possible), so there wasn't anything to say. Other than 'I miss you terribly.' 'I wish we were still together.'

John's mum took a turn for the worse then, so he had bigger problems. She was transferred to hospice and John visited her there every day. The hospital administration was understanding, giving him some leeway with his shifts.

She was unconscious much of the time, the amount of morphine required to alleviate her pain made her logy and liable to drift off. She made an effort, though, to extend the moments of consciousness she had with her children.

"Where is that man of yours?" She asked John one day. "You haven't brought Sherlock to see me in a while."

John sighed unhappily. "We, erm, aren't seeing each other anymore."

"Oh. I'm sorry, John, I know you really liked him."

"Yeah."

"What happened, John?"

Anyone else he would have brushed off. John wouldn't have even told her much when she was well. But she was dying and she wanted to know, so he told her everything. He told her how Sherlock had willfully ignored every hint of John's military commitment - and admitted that he'd found himself, more than once, holding his tongue when he could have spoken of it. He'd known it would be a problem for Sherlock. 

"He's one of the most self-centered people I've ever known." John said. "Of course he'd hate anything that didn't include him."

"He seemed very interested in your wellbeing." His mum offered. "He was always looking for ways to make you happy."

"But was that about me? Or did he just think of me as an .... an extension of himself - and when I wouldn't play along..."

"Was he a selfish lover?" Mum asked."

"MUM!"

"No, John, I don't want details. Just think about it - was he a selfish lover?"

"No." John admitted. "Quite the opposite."

"There you go. And he stayed at that awful flat of yours - he was thinking of you, not himself."

"Yeah." John felt miserable, reminded of how happy he'd felt.

Mum patted his arm. "I'm sorry, John. I liked him too. I liked how you were together." She pulled him into her arms and John let himself cry for losing his lover and losing his mother.

John was with his mum when she passed. Harry was there too - sober (-ish), for once. Even though her death was expected, John found it harder to accept than he anticipated. 

He went home after - turning down Harry's invitation to get a pint (or ten) first. He hoped the long walk and the long ride on the Underground would clear his head, but it hadn't. He'd arrived at his flat just as wrung out as when she died and he'd felt the pulse in her warm, living hand slow and then cease entirely.

Sherlock was outside his building. He stood as John approached.

"I heard about your mother, John. I'm so sorry." He'd said and wrapped his arms around John. 

For the second time in a week, John found himself sobbing on the shoulder of someone he loved.

Sherlock had taken him upstairs and made tea. Then he'd put John to bed and crawled in after him. Sherlock had offered his body for comfort and John had taken it - taken Sherlock, spent himself inside him and fallen asleep in his embrace.

John woke the next morning with Sherlock still pressed against him and John so desperately wanted to wake up that way every morning. The wanting ached. 

But.

But, but, but...

John stirred and extricated himself. "I'm making tea." He murmured and kissed Sherlock's shoulder.

He found some pajamas in the loo, leaving his dressing gown for Sherlock as had been their custom. He put the kettle on and peered into the fridge. He wished he had some bagels or eggs. Or anything. He'd have to insist on taking Sherlock to breakfast.

Goddammit, why had Sherlock come back?! John had needed him last night and he was grateful, very grateful. But now John would have the pain of their breakup afresh.

By the time Sherlock emerged from the toilet wrapped in John's dressing gown, the tea was ready.

"Two sugars." He said handing a mug to Sherlock.

"Thank you, John."

John sipped his tea. This was awkward. "Erm...thanks for last night." What could he possibly say? "I've really missed you, Sherlock."

"I missed you too, John."

John looked away, feeling tears pricking at his eyes, trying to hold them back. "Oh, fuck." John said under his breath. This was wrenching.

"John... I'm sorry I left the way I did. I'm... embarrassed by how I acted."

"It's fine." John said. "You were upset."

Sherlock stepped closer. "I know I can't ask you to change." He said carefully. "But the thought of you... going away...leaving me behind... it's terrifying..."

"I would never leave you behind." John felt hope growing inside him. It was dangerous to hope - too easy to see it dashed... to find himself dashed into pieces... "You could come with me to some places I might be stationed... everyplace, really, other than a war zone."

"Let's not fool ourselves, John. You're a doctor, they're GOING to send you to Iraq or Afghanistan. That...morass... won't be finished anytime soon."

John nodded. "There's a chance I could go to Ireland or The Falklands or one of our bases in the U.K.... but you're right, Iraq or Afghanistan is a strong possibility."

"I don't know how to even think about that - you going - not just away, somewhere I won't be with you - but going somewhere people will be trying to kill you. I love you, John! How can I face that?"

John took his hand. "Together. We face it together. We help each other. It won't be forever, Sherlock, just a few years. I know it won't be easy..."

John stopped talking when Sherlock grabbed hold of him and held him tightly. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and listened to his hopes join with his heart and sing with joy.

Sherlock accompanied John to the memorial several days later. John held his hand the whole time. 

Sherlock had not been wrong when he accused John of being afraid people would think he was gay. It wasn't that John was ashamed - it was that it was so new. He didn't know how to deal with the surprised reactions of his friends - and he feared that strangers might be unfriendly or even violent. Or think that John was an imposter, a poseur – John had FELT like an imposter attempting to inhabit this unexpected role: bisexual. It was stupid, but it was a lot to assimilate all at once. Even if it wasn't fair to Sherlock.

But now John found he couldn't care less what anyone else thought. It was hard enough dealing with his mother's death, everything else seemed trivial. It WAS trivial. He introduced Sherlock as his boyfriend to everyone at the memorial.

Ironically, the only person who reacted poorly was Harry.

She pulled him aside before the service. "What the bloody fuck, John!!!" She cried. "You pick mum's funeral to come out of the bloody closet!? Everything's all about you, innit?!"

"Harry, keep your voice down ... "

"No, John! No! You're not gay. I would know if you were gay, wouldn't I. What are you playing at?"

"I'm not playing at anything, Harry! Mum liked Sherlock. He's here to pay his respects. And to support me - that's what couples do."

Now you're just rubbing my nose in it, aren't you? You have someone and I don't! Bloody fucking wanker."

"Now who's making mum's memorial all about herself?!" John whispered furiously. "You wouldn't be alone if you crawled out of the bottle. You're just like dad - a mean, petty drunk. And you're going to die alone just like he did." John regretted the words as soon as he said them... but not because they weren't true – because mum would have hated him saying it. "Harry, I'm sorry..."

"Save it, John. Save it for someone who cares." And she stormed off past mum's sister and cousins, leaving John alone to greet them. He did, but not alone. Sherlock was at his side.

 

\----

 

They'd been a couple for over a year when they moved in together. Sherlock, in the course of his investigations, had helped out a woman with a flat to rent in central London. She was motherly and warm and not at all what John expected of someone who had helped to run a drug ring in Florida. He liked her immensely. And the flat was very nice, roomy and charming with a southern exposure. They took it immediately.

Living together wasn't very different – they slept together every night already. The main benefit was logistical, having both of their things in one place, not having to go back and forth... it was more than a benefit, it was luxury. 

And John got to hear Sherlock play his violin more often. He loved that.

They were still settling in when they had their first visitor. Though John didn't realize that was what was happening when Sherlock turned from the window, smiling broadly. "Yes!" He said under his breath.

Then John heard someone on the stairs, he opened the door. A tall, handsome dark-haired man in a suit, roughly five to ten years older than John, strode into the living room. "John, this is Detective Sergeant Lestrade of New Scotland Yard." Sherlock said with a flourish. "Lestrade, this is Dr. John Watson, my companion."

Lestrade offered his hand and John shook it. "I've heard a lot about you, Dr. Watson. It's a pleasure." 

"Oh...erm, have you?"

"Lestrade! What do you have for me?" Sherlock asked, brushing John's inquiring look aside.

"Two bodies found in bed together, wounds consistent with a pickaxe."

Sherlock beamed. "It's our boy."

"Looks like it. I need you to confirm. Will you come?"

"Yes, of course. I'm bringing John."

"Oh, no, I don't have to...." John started.

"No." Lestrade broke in. "You SHOULD come, Dr. Watson. Maybe if you're there he'll be... well..."

"Less of a prick?" John supplied. 

"Well, yeah." Lestrade admitted. 

"I'll get my coat." John said.

Lestrade smiled at Sherlock. "I like him!" He said.

Sherlock was in his element at the crime scene. He banished the investigators and started looking around the room. John watched from the doorway with Lestrade, one of the investigators crowding anxiously behind them. 

"Definitely our boy." Sherlock said. He examined the carpet. There was blood spatter on it and a careful trail of plastic squares for the police to walk on. "You can just make out a footprint here. He walked..." Sherlock looked around the room. "Here." He pulled out a foldable magnifying glass and peered through it at the wall adjacent to the bed. "Handprint." He said. "Too large to be either of our victims. There was blood spray on the hand when it came in contact with the wall." 

"Yeah, we saw that." The tech said condescendingly. "He was wearing a glove, no fingerprints."

Sherlock ignored him. "And there is...white powder..."

"It's just talc from the rubber glove." The tech brayed.

Sherlock appeared to be tasting the wall. "Definitely not talc." He proclaimed. "Lestrade! Our boy has been sloppy!" He rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers. "Powder!"

"Erm, I'll have the techs check it out."

"Excellent." Sherlock said sweeping back across the room. "Let me know what they find." He took John by the hand and started towards the door. 

"You're leaving?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, detective, we're off." Outside Sherlock hailed a cab. He gave an address John didn't recognize. 

"Were are we going?" He asked.

"The white powder is pancake - a kind of makeup often used in the theater – I tasted it, it's distinct from talc. The fist victims were members of an amateur theater troupe, we're going to the theater."

"WE are? Shouldn't you tell Lestrade?"

"I'll call him if we find anything."

"But what if we find the killer?"

"You brought your gun."

"How did you...? Never mind."

Sherlock smiled happily. At the theater Sherlock picked the stage door lock and they crept into the dim recesses backstage. As his eyes adjusted John could just make out the shape of a large axe with a spike opposite the blade. He touched Sherlock's arm and pointed it out. Sherlock nodded. He indicated that John should go one way around the theater and he the other. John walked noiselessly out into the house, peering between the rows of chairs. As he started back the other side, he heard voices.

"It's too late, Mr. Allison, the police are on their way." It was Sherlock's voice. 

John made the thirty meters to the stage in a dead sprint and then - careful not to make a sound - hoisted himself up onto the platform. He stood and walked quickly across to the curtain. 

"A knife?" Sherlock's voice was much louder than whomever he was speaking with. "Wouldn't you prefer your pickaxe? I saw it right outside in the hall."

John had made his way back to the stage door and started the way Sherlock had gone – quickly. 

"You think you're so smart, Mr. Holmes. But you'll bleed just like anyone else."

"Most probably." Sherlock replied. 

John peered around the doorway. Allison had Sherlock cornered in a small dressing room. There was too much furniture in the room for Sherlock to move around the man. It would hamper him from defending himself from the evil-looking pig sticker the killer was wielding as well. He had, however, picked up one of the chairs and was holding it between himself and the knife. That was all John needed.

John stepped neatly into the room, grabbed the man's wrist and slammed it against the table once, twice, and Allison dropped the knife. It clattered to the floor and John kicked it away. He twisted the arm he was holding up and back, spinning the man and shoving him facedown onto the table, pinning him there, the hand between his shoulder blades. John grabbed a fistful of Allison's hair and smashed his face down. Allison struggled, almost getting purchase with his feet and trying to buck backwards. John lifted his head and slammed it down face-first, breaking the man's nose. He screamed as John tightened his grip on the twisted arm and used his body weight to keep the man down.

Sherlock was dialing Lestrade. "Lestrade, are you on your way to the theater?... Yes, the Olivia Theater, what other theater is there?...It's Allison – the murder weapon is here. John has him pinned, but I'm sure he'd be DELIGHTED to hand him over." He hung up.

"Sherlock." John said. "A little help?" 

"Right." Sherlock pulled John's gun from the holster and cocked it. "Did you hear that, Mr. Allison? It's a gun. I will shoot you if you move." John let him go, flexing his fingers. "John, my left pocket, handcuffs." As John reached in his hand brushed against Sherlock's side – and Sherlock shuddered with arousal. John smirked as he handcuffed Allison to the radiator.

It was a long half hour, waiting for Lestrade and the other police to show up and take custody of the fiend. But finally they were free and they dashed out of the theater onto the street looking for a cab... Sherlock hailed one and they jumped in.

"John...I can't wait..." Sherlock said advancing on him.

"We're not fucking in a cab, Sherlock." John said, laughing. 

"The driver won't care." Sherlock pawed at John. "Hand job?"

"No!" John laughed.

"John, what you did to him! You know what it does to me." He opened his coat to reveal the straining tent in his trousers.

"I do now." John purred. He leaned in and let Sherlock nuzzle his neck. "I'm going to fuck you." He whispered, running his fingers across Sherlock's chest, worrying a nipple through the cloth. "I'm going to fuck you right proper, Sherlock Holmes." 

Sherlock shivered. He took John's hand and moved it to his crotch. "You could give ME a hand job. I love your hands."

"You're going to have my hands all over you." John kissed him, pushing Sherlock back against the seat. "Hands off now."

"John...!"

"Hand's off." John used his military voice and Sherlock trembled. John never got tired of how that felt under his hands. He leaned close to Sherlock's ear. "I'm going to make you wait for it." He kissed Sherlock's jaw. "Hands down! No touching." John kissed his cheek. "You're going to get everything you want..." He kissed Sherlock's mouth.

"Ahem...this is your stop, boys..." The cabbie announced.

John laughed and climbed out while Sherlock paid. He went in and ran up the stairs to their flat, shedding his coat in the living room and continuing straight into their bedroom. He heard Sherlock on the stairs as he pulled his shirt over his head. He'd kicked his shoes off by the time Sherlock made the bedroom. 

Sherlock loomed in the doorway his coat spread out behind him like a bird of prey, dwarfing John. 

"Clothes. Off. Now." John commanded.

Sherlock smiled happily as he stripped. When he was nude, John appraised him, admiring how his dark hair set off his pale skin, how the pink of his cheeks matched the pink of his cockhead in his arousal. 

"Come here." John said. "I know what you want." He kissed him tenderly. Then he took hold of Sherlock firmly and in one swift movement, pushed him to the bed and bent him forward over it.

Sherlock trembled with excitement and arched his back as John pressed his denim-clad crotch against his arse. The adrenaline from the theater still pulsing in his veins, John ground his hips forward and nipped Sherlock's neck. He reached over and opened the nightstand and grabbed the lubricant.

"Beg." John said.

John remembered when he'd first realized that what Sherlock really wanted, what he needed, was for John to take control. Nothing turned him on more or made him cum harder than being ordered around. And as much as Sherlock LOVED being fucked, if John were tired, Sherlock seemed to enjoy being ordered to blow John and stroke himself almost as much - as long as John demanded it, it was Sherlock's complete pleasure. John had spent some time checking in, both during and after sex, to make certain Sherlock was sincere. But by now, John knew exactly what his lover craved and enjoyed thinking of novel ways to give it to him.

"Please, John...I need it..." Sherlock begged.

"What do you need?" John had opened the lube and squeezed some onto his fingers.

"Your cock. Please, John, give it to me."

John fingered Sherlock's arse, penetrating his hole. Sherlock pushed back against his hand. "You're greedy." John said, pushing a second finger in.

"Yes!"

John continued opening Sherlock up with his fingers, teasing him, stroking lightly across his prostate and demanding Sherlock beg for the fucking he craved.

"Please, John, don't stop! Give me your cock - I need your big cock. My John, my sweet, magnificent John, put it in me, use me..."

When John judged he was ready, he withdrew his hand and unbuttoned his jeans. He pushed them down exposing himself. His prick bobbed rudely against Sherlock's hip as he applied lubricant. He lined himself up and began to press into the tight ring of muscle.

"God, yes! Give me your cock, John! Fuck me!"

It felt so good to push his cock into Sherlock's tight, hot hole - Sherlock shoved himself back onto it, impaling himself with a satisfied grunt. After an experimental in-and-out, John began to fuck him in earnest, thrusting his fat prick into Sherlock forcefully, listening to Sherlock's moans and cries, making certain he was fucking him hard without going over the line.

"Please...! More! John, please fuck me harder!"

John abandoned his control and jackhammered Sherlock's willing hole, his balls slapping against his arse, leaning down on Sherlock's back, making certain that Sherlock's cock brushed against the bed covers with each stroke.

Sherlock grunted in ecstasy with each thrust.

"Cum for me." John commanded and reached down to finger one of Sherlock's nipples. That pushed him over, John felt Sherlock shudder and stiffen, his muscles contracting around John's prick.

Sherlock clutched the duvet and cried out. "John!"

John came a moment later, pushing himself all the way in and gripping Sherlock's flesh. Then he fucked his orgasm into his lover, slowing and finally coming to a halt. He collapsed on Sherlock's back, sweat between them, balancing awkwardly while they both recovered themselves.

"You are SUCH a great fuck." John whispered. 

"Get off, you're too heavy." Sherlock said and John laughed. He pulled out carefully, stood and shucked his jeans the rest of the way off. He grabbed a towel out of the nightstand and wiped himself off then handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock wrapped it around his waist and fell onto the bed on his back, arms open in invitation. John joined him and they snuggled together.

"I love you." John breathed. "So much."

"Mmmmm..." Sherlock hummed. "My man... my John ..."

"Five minutes." John said. "Then we have to shower."

"Why?!" Sherlock protested.

"You promised Lestrade we'd give a statement tonight. I believe you told him we were going directly to the station..."

"Ugh... tomorrow..."

"Nope, tonight. Lestrade is up for a promotion. We aren't going to do anything that makes him look bad. You WANT a Detective Inspector vouching for you." John said. "And when we get home.... I'll give you the shagging you really deserve."

Sherlock wiggled happily. "Oh, John..."

"If you ask nicely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An EXCELLENT fic to check out: The Repeated Image by Teatrolley
> 
> Seriously, you will cry, but it's worth it.


	5. Messages in a Bottle in Disappearing Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he watched the text of the last message disappear, John stopped himself from replying immediately. He lay back in the dim room, attempting to untangle his troubled thoughts. 
> 
> “Goddamn you, Sherlock!” He cried. “You bloody, fucking idiot!”

***** 11/8/12 18:21  
By now I’ve missed our phone call and you’re worried. I’ve asked Mycroft to give you Nuntius so I can lay your worries to rest. I trust you will read the next message in private.  
*****

 

John watched the message disappear. Another appeared in his queue. He re-entered his password, fingerprint and held the phone up to his face for the retina scan.

 

***** 11/8/12 18:43  
For some time I have been aware that there is an organization at work in London and beyond, a criminal organization with an influence over things as trivial as street drugs to things as complex as international politics. Last year, I was approached and asked to join the organization. I refused, but started laying the foundation to infiltrate. The man who approached me did so as a prospective lover - I don’t think that was just a pose, but something he wants as well as my help and expertise in his criminal ventures. He knows that you, John, stand in his way. He believes - erroneously - that if you and I were no longer together, I might look to him. I have encouraged the notion - over the past year I have affected distress at your absence (hardly difficult) and a growing distance between us emotionally as there is physically. Two months ago, I went to a club where men go to meet each other. I talked and danced a little, but went home early. I waited several weeks before going again, this time I left my wedding ring at home. I stayed longer and, pretending to be quite drunk, accompanied a man to the tea rooms in the back. I disappointed him, I’m afraid, and left feigning distress at having cheated on you. I’ve gone back, sometimes visiting the tea rooms, sometimes not. But appearing more and more available. Last night, I saw him there, watching me. I pretended to be upset and guilty and left abruptly, but it’s exactly the opening I’ve been waiting for. Today I visited Mycroft and tonight I’ll go back to the club. My dearest John, while I’m asking that you join me in pretending we are estranged, don’t think for a second that I have abandoned you. I love you with the same passion as when we met and it’s going to be torment not to hear your voice. I depend on you for so much! I’m asking that you trust me, trust that I love you and that I am true to you always. My greatest hope is to get the evidence against Moriarty before your leave next month so I can make all of this up to you then. Please reply to me via this address - I miss you already. I am yours always. SH  
*****

 

***** 11/9/12 23:02  
Moriarty approached me today! I asked him NOT to renew his romantic offer of last year. He said he’d seen me out cruising at the club and I admitted - grudgingly, with many caveats - that you and I were going through a rough patch. I could see the glee in his eyes, the ghoul. We talked for hours and ultimately I let him persuade me to join him in his work. I consented to be drugged and awoke in a large country estate - Moriarty claims it is his home and I cannot dispute it. I’m in, John!  
*****

 

***** 11/10/12 23:50  
Moriarty is a professor of maths. Not at Oxford or Cambridge, one of the smaller universities, I’m still working out which one. He makes himself a charming companion and we’ve spent several pleasant evenings together. His desire for me is evident, I can’t pretend not to notice, but I am distraught over the breakdown of my relationship with you. He has begun to involve me in some of his schemes - tests, of course. But even these are revealing - he is the Napoleon of crime, John. He is the organiser of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in London and across Europe. I hope Mycroft has given you my message - I had thought to hear from you by now. Don’t be angry with me, my beloved John.  
*****

 

***** 11/11/12 20:32  
John, Moriarty claims that you have been killed - shot by a sniper. I cannot believe him, but I cannot discount his story as it has been my fear for you from the beginning. Please, John, even if you’re angry with me, let me know that you’re alive and well. My worries eat at me. I dare not let Moriarty see them.  
*****

 

***** 11/12/12 06:14  
My hope is fading. You would not let me suffer like this if you lived, no matter how much you hate me now. I get no thrill from the chase any longer, I fear I am transparent to Moriarty. He seems to wait for me to accept your death before he trusts me with more of his secrets. I am watched day and night. I simply don’t care.  
*****

 

***** 11/12/12 22:08  
I write out of desperate hope. John, MY John, can you truly be lost? Moriarty is a monster, he delights in causing misery to which I cannot admit.  
*****

 

As he watched the text of the last message disappear, John stopped himself from replying immediately. He lay back in the dim room, attempting to untangle his troubled thoughts. 

“Goddamn you, Sherlock!” He cried. “You bloody, fucking idiot!” How could he put himself into danger like this? ESPECIALLY when John wasn’t there to back him up! Sherlock was blissfully confident in his own abilities – so confident that his failures took him by surprise. 

Any doubts John had had about Sherlock not loving him any longer were replaced by a deep anxiety over Sherlock’s safety. This organization and this Moriarty were dangerous! Sherlock was indulging his self-destructive streak again, the one John worried about when he was away. Sherlock had consented to be drugged?! And woken up outside the city in Moriarty’s lair?! He was being watched day and night?! And if Sherlock WAS correct about the man being romantically interested, how was Sherlock going to avoid having sex with him? 

The thought of Sherlock being intimate with someone else hurt - even going out and pretending to pull other men didn’t sit well. But John was more worried that if Sherlock did try to be with this Moriarty, his disinterest would be obvious and insurmountable. John had watched men and women throw themselves at Sherlock for years - many of them much more attractive and clever than John. Sherlock was oblivious to their charms. He might (or might not) like and respect them as colleagues or even friends but his lack of romantic interest was stunning. He wasn’t flattered, he wasn’t titillated, his heartbeat never raced, his temperature never rose - body and mind, he simply didn’t care. John alone was the exception.

It was so pronounced that John felt self-conscious that he WAS physically attracted to other people. (And Sherlock ALWAYS knew, even after John made concerted efforts to NOT glance at women’s breasts and behinds. Sherlock knew and it caused him pain. It came out when they argued - Sherlock could recite every woman – and the odd man – to whom John had even the smallest sexual response. People John barely remembered, people he’d passed on the street and had no memory of at all - Sherlock catalogued them all.)

Sherlock couldn’t feign attraction – Moriarty would see through it. Unless... unless Sherlock WAS attracted to Moriarty...

John forced that thought to the back of his mind. Sherlock’s safety was more important right now than John’s jealousy. They could deal with that when Sherlock was safely home.

The question now was should John write back? Would it help or harm Sherlock’s position? If the dread and depression he felt not knowing John’s status was alleviated, would Sherlock be able to hide it from Moriarty? John wished he could read Sherlock's notes again, glean more clues to Sherlock's state, but they were gone. One look was all Nuntius allowed.

If someone WAS making attempts on John’s life, Sherlock needed that information. He needed to know to what lengths Moriarty would go to secure Sherlock. That worry and the knowledge that John was injured and in hospital should generate enough anxiety to compensate for the relief of knowing John was alive.

The emotional turmoil was making John’s shoulder throb. But he needed a clear head to compose a reply to Sherlock. Morphine would have to wait.

 

***** 11/13/12 21:18  
Sherlock, I JUST got your messages. I haven’t been killed, but I broke our deal – I was shot in the shoulder six days ago. I had surgery in Kandahar and was then moved to Landstuhl hospital in Germany. My prognosis is very good, I should be released in a few days, so no worry there. I’ve been SO worried about you – no one has been able to contact you and I feared the worst. Mycroft flew in to Germany earlier today and gave me Nuntius – he is already on the way back to London, should you need him. If you want me to contact him, I have a secure line. You SHOULD know that there was a suspicious accident last night, my morphine pump malfunctioned and I almost overdosed. There is some evidence that it wasn’t an accident, which led Mycroft to question whether my being shot was entirely coincidental. IF someone is making attempts on my life, it very well may be connected to your investigation. I can’t imagine any other scenario in which someone would want me dead. Mycroft left two of his operatives with me, so I’m safe. But you aren’t – BE CAREFUL, SHERLOCK! You’ve already taken terrible risks and I dread what may happen next. Do whatever you must to get out alive. If you have to sleep with him, DO IT. If you have to think of me to make it believable, DO IT. I will be much more upset with you if you don’t come home. You have my heart, Sherlock, now and forever. Be careful with it. John.  
*****

John sent the message hoping it was the right thing to do. He waited for a reply, but none came – he hadn’t expected one immediately. After a few minutes he turned to the morphine pump and gave himself a dose. The doses were smaller now, John wanted to be off opiates altogether by the time he was released. 

There was a knock and Stanley stuck his head in the door.

“If you’re finished, Captain, Nurse Abel is here for you.”

“Yes, thank you, Stanley.” John replied, tucking the smartphone under the covers where he could feel it next to his hip.

Abel came in, accompanied by the large operative. He loomed over her small form, but she took no notice. 

“I just need to take your vitals.” She said to John. She proceeded to do so, putting a blood pressure cuff on John’s arm, pressing her stethoscope to his chest and his back, taking his temperature from his ear and noting everything down on his chart. It was a comforting ritual – although John was much more used to being on the other side of it. 

“When do you think I can be released?” John asked.

“That’s for the doctor to say.”

“Of course. Do you, in your opinion, see any reason I might not be released tomorrow or the day after?”

She looked at him flatly, but she replied. “No. You’re strong and healthy other than the wound. But don’t take my word for it.”

“Thanks, Abel. I appreciate it.”

Major Sholto was scheduled to visit John tomorrow, assess his condition with the doctor and lay out the next steps, presumably physical therapy and time to heal in Britain before he was sent back to Afghanistan. 

Sent back to Afghanistan.

John hadn’t thought about returning. He couldn’t even imagine telling Sherlock he was going back. But of course he would – the Fusiliers needed him. His little field hospital needed him. He had mates there that he couldn’t let down. He was going to go back to the heat, to the sand that got into everything, the dust that got into everything else, IEDs and the wounds that IEDs caused, operating on soldiers that had lost legs and arms, some legs AND arms, who had lost so much...back to where people were shooting at him...

John felt a little thrill of anticipation. 

That didn’t make sense. He HATED being in Afghanistan. He hated being away from his husband and his city. And he really hated being shot. Being shot sucked.

“I don't think I can sleep yet, Stan.” John told the big operative. “Why don’t you pull the recliner over?”

“Certainly, Captain...”

“Call me ‘John,’ please. You aren’t military, there’s no reason for formality.”

“Certainly, sir....John.”

John smiled, amused. “You play cards?” He asked. Stanley DID play and soon he’d obtained a deck and John was dealing cards for Gin Rummy. John needed the distraction from Sherlock's situation - Sherlock's stupidity! A distraction from the pain in his shoulder and in his heart. Stanley was intelligent and engaging and John enjoyed getting to know him whilst they played. Stan would DEFINITELY have ended up on Sherlock’s list of people John was attracted to, were he there. And oh how John wished Sherlock WAS there giving him the evil eye while he chatted up Stanley.

John was tired. He was wrung out from the emotions of the last few days, the anxiety caused by Sherlock’s messages, from his body trying to heal. He definitely needed to sleep. If he could just quiet his racing thoughts for a moment...

He was in bed with Sherlock. They were kissing, they were going to shag, but there was no hurry. They could take their time.... it felt wonderful to feel Sherlock’s hands on his body again... John lay back feeling so relaxed and happy... one of those American mercs that were everywhere now was rifling John’s uniform.... John wanted him to go away, leave him alone - he was with Sherlock... the sand felt gritty under his hands...the merc picked him up and John almost passed out from the pain...he could see Sherlock in their bed as the big man carried him away...Sherlock was with someone else...John couldn't see his face, just his hands caressing Sherlock's skin...

John woke with a start.

His shoulder hurt. Badly. And it itched deep inside. John desperately wanted to scratch at it. The itch meant it was healing, that was good. But should it still hurt this much? How long would he have to take the bloody morphine? At least the pain was clearing the vestiges of his nightmare from his brain.

John looked around. It was dawn. Dougan was sitting in a chair by the door. Soon nurses would come in to take his vitals and give him breakfast. He was going for a walk today – a long walk if John had anything to say about it. He was sick of being an invalid. Why should he wait? He swung his legs over the side of the bed and dragging his IV stand and morphine pump with him, made his way to the toilet. Dougan looked up, but John gestured that he should stay put. 

In the bog he checked the smartphone. He opened the Nuntius app...there was a message!

 

***** 11/14/12 04:36  
JOHN! You can’t imagine my relief. I should be by your side n  
*****

 

And that was all. John watched the letters dissolve, knowing that Sherlock had been interrupted. Had he been discovered?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another recommendation: The Circle of Fifths. A series of related stories with a happy ending.
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/series/14801


	6. Deployment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m going to worry about you when I’m away.” John said.
> 
> “Don’t go.” Sherlock whispered so softly John barely heard him.
> 
> John held him tightly. “I will never let you go.” He said.

John put the kettle on.

Sherlock hadn’t spoken for the last five minutes. He was sitting at the table, the letter in front of him. John could read the expressions flickering across his face – devastation, fury, pain....

The contents of the letter weren’t a surprise. They had expected it. But it was real now. John was being deployed to Afghanistan – the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers would be shipping out in six weeks.

John got two mugs down from the cupboard. The water had boiled. He heaped a couple spoonfuls of English Breakfast into the teapot and poured the water over it. He let it steep.

“Let’s not make this harder than it already is.” John said knowing it was futile.

Sherlock’s eyes focused on him. Fury. His expression had settled into fury. “I want to see other people.” He said.

“No you don’t.” John replied calmly.

“I do! I will. You’re leaving me, you don’t care.”

“Mm.” John leaned back on the counter, settling in for a long night.

“See! You don’t care at all.” Sherlock spat.

“You know I do.”

“You don’t even LIVE here anymore! You don’t care if I bring other men home. Or women!”

“Sherlock, if I thought for one second that you were serious, I would care deeply. But you have shown exactly NIL interest in fucking other people the entire time I’ve known you.”

“Unlike you...”

John sighed. “I know it would hurt you terribly if I said that I wanted to see other people - which is why you’re saying it to me. But - despite my purely physical reactions to other people UPON OCCASION - I DON’T want to see anyone else. I’m very happy with you, you bloody idiot.”

“How can you be so calm!?” Sherlock cried.

“There’s no point getting angry, Sherlock, it won’t change anything. I want to enjoy the time we have together now.” John poured tea into their mugs. Sherlock sat stonily silent while John added a dash of milk to his tea and set the other mug, a spoon and the sugar bowl in front of Sherlock. “You’re mad at the situation, not at me.”

“I am mad at you!” Sherlock burst out. “You refuse to even consider changing ‘the situation!’”

“I can’t change it. No one can change it.”

“Mycroft –”

“NO!” John said firmly. “Put that out of your mind.”

“But....!”

“NO!” John softened his tone. “Love, you came back to me knowing that this would happen. I know it was easier to face when it was some unnamed time in the future, but this isn’t a surprise. You’ve had years to prepare.”

Sherlock turned his head away, trying to rein in his emotions. “It’s...it’s harder than I expected.” 

“Oh my love!” John walked over and put his arms around Sherlock. “We’ll get through this. It’s not forever.”

“John...I hate this.”

“I know, love.” John kissed him. Sherlock pulled John closer and they kissed again, Sherlock with a desperate passion. He clung to John. 

“Oh, John.” 

John held him tightly. “I’ll never let you go.” He said kissing Sherlock’s mouth and jaw and cheek.

“Do you promise?” Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck.

“Yes! Yes, my love!” John pulled Sherlock’s hair, raising his face to where he could kiss him again.

“My John... my John.” His hands were everywhere, under John’s shirt, around his neck, palming the bulge in his trousers...

“Come into the bedroom now or I’ll have you right here.” John said between kisses.

Sherlock stood, pushing his chair over backwards. John, his arm around Sherlock’s waist, led him the interminable three meters to their bedroom. He started unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt as they kissed. 

Sherlock tugged at John’s shirt and he pulled it off then returned to unbuttoning. He continued down the shirt to the trousers and unbuttoned them too. He walked Sherlock backwards to the bed and pushed him down so he sat on it. Then John kissed Sherlock and pulled his cock out of his pants. John knelt quickly and took it in his mouth. Sherlock gasped at the sensation.

This wasn’t how they usually had sex, but this was what John wanted now. He wrapped his hand around the base of Sherlock’s prick and sucked the head into his throat. He tongued the slit then ran his tongue under the flaring ridge. Then he bobbed, applying suction. John couldn’t suppress his gag reflex enough to take the whole cock in, as Sherlock could, but he handled Sherlock’s bollocks, stroked his perineum and fingered his hole as he sucked and Sherlock moaned and gasped and shuddered with pleasure.

“Oh, fuck me, John.” Sherlock moaned. “I need you inside me.” John lifted his head, a trail of saliva stretched from the corner of his mouth to the head of Sherlock’s cock. He stood up and pushed Sherlock roughly so he lay on the bed and tugged his pants and trousers off his long legs. Kneeling between Sherlock’s bare legs, he leaned over and kissed him. Sherlock’s hands were at his fly, scrabbling it open. John stood and quickly shed his jeans and returned to kneel between Sherlock’s legs.

“Get the lube.” He said huskily, and Sherlock reached over to the nightstand. He handed John the tube and a fresh towel. He lifted his bum so John could spread the towel under them. Then John was fingering his hole again, with lubricated fingers, helping Sherlock relax and open. Soon enough, John applied a generous amount of lube to his own cock and picked up Sherlock’s legs and placed them over his shoulders. His cock found Sherlock’s arsehole and breached.

“Uhn..” It was more of a strain in this position, John slowed. “No, don’t stop.” Sherlock said. 

John pushed Sherlock’s legs until his knees rested on the bed next to his ears, rolling his pelvis upright – this compensated for the height difference, putting them face-to-face. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, especially for Sherlock – one of the several reasons John usually took him from behind.

“I need to see your face.” John said.

“Yes.” Sherlock agreed breathlessly.

John remembered the first time he’d fucked Sherlock - it had seemed to be... revelatory for him, life-changing. It opened doors to pleasures Sherlock never dreamed existed. The pleasure consumed him. 

John had bottomed a few times, and once he got past the pain, he’d enjoyed it well enough. But he never LOVED it the way Sherlock did. When Sherlock had admitted he didn’t really like doing all the work, they’d agreed they were very happy this way, Sherlock taking whatever John had to give.

John gave it to him now, kissing him as they fucked. He loved seeing Sherlock’s eyes, unfocus and glaze with pleasure, loved seeing his face when he came.

He took it slowly, going hard and deep, teasing Sherlock, enjoying how he trembled and moaned. Soon enough, though, he was demanding more. 

“John... please, more! John... I need it...”

John obliged, pinning his hands to the bed and railing him without mercy. He watched his lover come undone, lose himself entirely to the sensations, and finally arch and shudder and cry out John’s name as he shot sticky and hot on their chests.

Afterwards John held Sherlock and combed the sweaty curls off his forehead with his fingers. He tried to stay in THAT moment, the present moment where they were together and so happy. 

Sherlock had his eyes closed and his face turned into John’s shoulder, but John knew he wasn’t asleep.

“Hey.” John whispered. “Marry me.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and stretched out onto his back so he could see John. “We can’t get married. The U.K. doesn’t have same-sex marriage yet.”

“OK. Civilly partner with me then.”

“Separate but equal? That’s bloody shit. You know it’s real marriage or nothing, John. I won’t accept crumbs from the table and neither should you.”

“I know.” John said. They’d discussed this when the Civil Partnership bill passed and John had agreed with Sherlock that it was insulting. “But the army treats Civil Partnerships EXACTLY the same as marriage. As far as they’re concerned, you would be my spouse. We could get housing together on base.”

“Why would I want to live at Wellington Barracks?”

“Because I’m there.”

Sherlock huffed but didn’t speak.

“Sherlock, I want you to be with me. I want the army to know your name, to contact you first, to give you everything they give other spouses. I want you to be my husband.” John picked up Sherlock’s hand and kissed it. “Come on, Sherlock, make me the happiest of men.”

Sherlock was quiet for a while. So long John thought his answer was not to answer. 

Then Sherlock said: “Yes.”

 

\------

 

John watched Sherlock slip his suit coat on. He looked so elegant in the bespoke black suit and navy shirt. But Sherlock always looked elegant. He might have been going anywhere – out to dinner or out on a case – but for the boutonniere pinned to his lapel. Sherlock had selected a red rose and thistle – English rose and Scottish thistle – entwined. John smirked at how impossibly romantic that was.

John himself wore his dress uniform. The navy jacket with the red belt looked well on him - and coordinated with Sherlock’s shirt and rose - but he thought the red stripes down the side of the pants made him look even shorter than he was. But it didn’t matter as long as they were married. Or civilly partnered, he reminded himself. 

It would be a small wedding, they’d only had the 28 day waiting period to plan it. Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade had agreed to act as witnesses. Mycroft was coming. Harry had said she’d come, but John would believe it when he saw her walk through the door. Sherlock’s parents, Molly Hooper, John’s C.O. Major Sholto and their plus ones made up the rest of the party. John had invited the Major mostly to have at least ONE person on his side of the aisle. Not that there was an aisle.

They were meeting everyone at the Register Office – they’d decided to have the ceremony there. Once John had talked Sherlock out of having the it at the morgue, it seemed the best place. John had the fifty pounds in his pocket to pay for the ceremony and purchase a copy of the license.

More than anything, John wanted to focus on the wedding, marrying the man he loved. Not shipping out to Afghanistan in three weeks. And he wanted Sherlock to do the same.

“John! We have a client!” Sherlock announced from the window.

“No, we absolutely do not have a client.” John said firmly. “They can come back tomorrow – or better, next week.” John had leave for the weekend.

“I’ll be at the barracks next week.” Sherlock complained.

“You won’t be a prisoner. You can come back here anytime you want. I don’t imagine you’d be sitting around in temporary housing much anyway.”

“How else will I get to know the other wives?”

John guffawed. “You aren’t my wife.”

The client had made his way up the stairs and stood in the door frame timidly. Mrs. Hudson was behind him, her rose and thistle corsage lovely on the breast of her green dress.

Sherlock took one look at the client. “No. Go away.” He said. “You’re a four. I’m not interrupting my wedding for a four. Goodbye.” Sherlock brushed past the man and started down the stairs.”Come on, John. We’ll be late.”

“Come back next week.” John said. “After the honeymoon.” He ushered the client and Mrs. Hudson down the stairs and jumped into the cab Sherlock already had waiting.

It was to be a simple wedding, simple and short. There was no set ceremony for Civil Partnerships, but John had arranged for one with the Register Office. He and Sherlock were “allowed” to speak vows “if they chose.” John had shrugged off his irritation with the whole ridiculous pile of Civil Partnership shit and told Sherlock to start writing his vows.

“Sherlock Holmes and Captain John Watson have chosen to pledge themselves to each other by committing to a legally binding contract.” The officiant began. She was a tall woman with iron gray hair and a twinkle in her eye. She obviously enjoyed this part of her job. “We are witnessing this partnership hoping that your love, trust and understanding of each other will increase your contentment and joy in living.”

John and Sherlock stood in front of her. She indicated they should say their vows. 

John had struggled with his. There was so much he wanted to say to Sherlock, but saying it in front of everyone... finding the right words had been difficult.

John took Sherlock’s hand. “Ever since that morning years ago when we watched the sun rise over the river and you told me that you loved me, I have been yours.” John began. “Every day since then has been an adventure – and I mean that literally. I love you madly, you idiot, and I will never, ever let you go. I, John, choose you, Sherlock, above all others to share my life”

Everyone murmured their approval. The officiant turned to Sherlock.

For a moment Sherlock didn’t speak, he just scrutinized John as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. He took a breath. “I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Sherlock, take you, John, to be my life long partner.” He said the official words quickly then paused again, frowning. “If I don’t say the right things today, it is because I never expected to be married. Partly because I never expected to be ALLOWED to marry - not that we’re actually allowed to marry now, rather we’re relegated to ‘Civil Partnership, -”

“Sherlock.” John cut in. “Let it go.”

“...party because I never expected to be allowed to marry...” Sherlock continued. “...but mostly because I never expected to WANT to marry. I never expected to find such happiness. John, you are the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. I am a ... a ridiculous man redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your love. It’s ALWAYS you. It’s ONLY you. Without you I would have died a dozen times in a dozen ways by now. Without you by my side, I wouldn’t bet on me to last six months. John Watson, you keep me right. Standing here next to you, the man who has saved me, I vow I will never let you down, and I have a lifetime ahead to prove that. 

No one said anything for a long moment. John didn’t know whether to hug Sherlock or punch him. He hugged the taller man. “You wouldn’t die without me, you ridiculous drama queen.” He whispered.

The officiant waited until they separated. “All stand.” She said. “We have now come to the exchanging of rings. This giving of a band signifies the promise of a love that is everlasting and is a public affirmation that the contract between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes will be honoured.”

She looked at John and he pulled a ring out of his pocket. They had decided on simple platinum bands.

“This ring is a token of my love and a sign of the vow I make to you today.” John said and carefully pushed the band onto Sherlock’s ring finger.

The officiant turned to Sherlock. “This ring...” He said. “...is a token of my enduring love and a sign of the promise I make to you today.”

The officiant guided them through the rest of the ceremony - affirming there was no legal reason they SHOULDN’T be civilly partnered and then signing the contract. 

Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade witnessed the signing and it was official! Sherlock swept John into his arms and kissed him - to the delight of their guests. Even Major Sholto managed to smile at the grooms.

Afterwards they had cake - chocolate with strawberries - and everyone congratulated them. While Sherlock’s parents hugged their resistant son, Major Sholto spoke to John.

“Sherlock is a lucky man.” Sholto said, touching John’s arm. “No one could do better.”

John blushed a little at the compliment. “Thank you for coming, Major. It means a lot. And thank you for arranging for the temporary housing - I know it’s only three weeks...”

“Don’t mention it, Watson. The army does it for all married couples. These three weeks, it’s important to be with your family.”

“Yeah, it is. How do you do it, you and Mrs. Sholto? How do you...stay connected?”

All the animation drained from his face. “We aren’t the best example...” 

"I'm sorry..." John stuttered.

Sholto looked across the room at Sherlock, John couldn’t interpret his expression. “I think you’ve chosen better than I did.” He put his hand on John’s shoulder, a gesture that should have felt fatherly or friendly seemed strangely intimate. “You’re a good man, Watson.”

Sherlock materialized at John’s side. Sholto quickly pulled his hand off John’s shoulder and offered it to Sherlock to shake. “Congratulations, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please.” He replied taking the Major’s hand.

“You’re... a very lucky man, Sherlock.” Sholto told him, his eyes flickering to John. 

“Yes.” Sherlock agreed. “Not so lucky that you aren’t taking my man away to Afghanistan.”

“Sherlock...” John said warningly.

“No, he’s right. It’s not so lucky. But when you have the best, you do whatever you must to deserve it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed coldly, then both Sherlock and Major Sholto looked at John. John could see Sherlock was jealous - he’d certainly seen that look often enough. But Sholto, the hardened soldier almost seemed wistful. It was strange. 

The Major left soon after that and John and Sherlock weren’t far behind. They were staying at a very nice hotel - a gift from Sherlock’s parents.

In the cab, John held Sherlock’s hand. “Why were you acting jealous of Major Sholto? I’m NOT attracted to him.”

“John, can you be so blind? He’s in love with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’s my commanding officer. He's married.”

“Yes, it wouldn’t be appropriate to have a romantic relationship with a subordinate. And you’ve both been in serious relationships since before you met, so he’s never spoken. But none of that changes the fact that he is completely, hopelessly in love with you.”

“You are imagining things.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He stroked John’s cheek, then leaned over and kissed him. “He’s right, I don’t deserve you.”

“Shut up.” John said, pulling him back for another kiss.

It wasn’t until much later that John asked about Sherlock’s vows. They were in the huge hotel bed, curled up together, enjoying the afterglow of athletic sex. John had been idly wondering if he could somehow cheat his refractory period and have another go with Sherlock before falling asleep. 

“What were you saying about dying? In your vows?”

“Without you...” Sherlock recited softly. “I would have died a dozen times in a dozen ways. Without you by my side, I wouldn’t bet on me to last six months.” He caressed John’s side.

John flesh prickled pleasantly under the touch. “What does that mean?”

“Mm.” Sherlock stretched and rolled, not away from John, but no longer curled into him. “Before I met you, I was... self-destructive. I was taking greater and greater risks... because I was... bored.”

“What sort of risks?”

“I would go after criminals on my own...”

“You still do that.”

“No, you’re with me. Or Lestrade. Someone knows what’s going on. I used to just plunge in alone. And then there were the drugs.”

“Drugs!?”

“Yeah. Before I met you, I had started taking cocaine. And sometimes heroin.”

“Jesus, Sherlock!”

“I feel certain that by now I’d be nothing more than a junkie, probably stealing from Mycroft to buy another hit. If I were even still alive.”

“What...” John took a breath. “How did you quit?”

“I knew you wouldn’t... like me...if you knew. When I could look forward to seeing you, it was easy to stay sober. I wasn’t... I wasn’t bored.”

“You aren’t going to.... when I’m away...?”

“No. You’re coming back.” Sherlock scoffed at himself. “I still want you to like me.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock. “You are an idiot.”

“I know.” Sherlock was quiet, he seemed troubled.

“What is it?” John asked, lifting himself up onto an elbow so he could see Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock shook his head. 

"Tell me." John urged gently.

Sherlock hesitated. “Last year... when we were staking out the public bogs, looking for the Starlight Killer...”

“Yeah?” John prompted.

“I saw glory holes - I’d seen them before, of course, but not... in action.”

“Ok.”

Sherlock rubbed his face then covered his eyes with his hand. “I saw a man there, on his knees for more than an hour, felating strangers one after another. He knew I was watching...he liked it. He was performing for me... it turned him on. He... needed to be ...used... to be humiliated.” Sherlock paused, his face crumpling with emotion. He recovered his composure and continued. “I saw myself in him. I could have been the one crouching in filth in a cottage blowing anonymous men all night. We were the same....”

“Sherlock...”

“Let me finish, please.” Sherlock said tightly. “Maybe I had always known deep down... maybe part of the boredom was this sick need going unfulfilled. Maybe that’s why I used drugs, it was ... more dignified to be a junkie than a...a whore... but I’d never been confronted with it. Never really seen how disgusting... how broken I am.”

“Sherlock, you’re NOT disgusting or broken.” John said, gripping his arm. “I LOVE our sex life. It’s a big part of why I could never see myself with anyone else.”

“I know." Sherlock said simply. "You have saved me, John. You are the one person in all the world who could satisfy THAT need, yet be so kind and caring as to never hurt me, never make me feel ashamed, never share me out or take advantage in any way. It would never even occur to you. Because you are good and brave and caring. You are the one person I could love. John, without you... I don’t know where I’d be... dead or wishing I were dead.”

“Sherlock... come here.” John drew him back into his arms and held him fiercely. “I hate that you feel this way.”

“I’ve wondered...” Sherlock said. “It can’t be lost on you, knowing my preferences in bed, that seeing you put down that man in Emergency Care is what made me want to get to know you better. Seeing how easily you dominated him.”

“No, it’s not been lost on me.” John had considered that long ago. "It doesn't matter."

“Whatever part of me knew that I would have to satisfy that need to be dominated... knew that I would end up somewhere horrible... loathing myself. That part saw you take that man down and control him and knew THAT was what I wanted – but I ALSO saw that you’re a doctor, you care for people, for their bodies....so maybe you could be ‘safe.’ Is that what drove me to get to know you?" Sherlock stared at the ceiling as if it might have answers. "Then I found I liked you ... and loved you... that’s a miracle.” Sherlock wiped impatiently at the tears falling into his hair. “I don’t know how you can love me.”

“Sherlock... love...” John didn’t know how to comfort him. "Of course I love you."

“Even after what I just told you?”

“WHATEVER brought us together, I’m GRATEFUL for it. You make me so happy. I love ALL the parts of you, idiot.”

Sherlock finally returned John’s embrace, clung to him while emotion continued to shudder through his body.

“I’m going to worry about you when I’m away.” John said.

“Don’t go.” Sherlock whispered so softly John barely heard him.

John held him tightly. “I will never let you go.” He said. “Here, take a look at something.”

“What.”

“Your ring. I had it engraved.”

“Oh.” Sherlock fumbled with the platinum band. He took it off and John reached over to the night table for his smartphone. He turned on the torch and pointed it at the ring.

“There, on the inside.”

It said: FOREVER.

Sherlock stared at it for a long moment. 

"I don't deserve you." 

"Stop being stupid. I married you." 

"You did." Sherlock smiled slightly. "You're stuck with me."

John carefully placed the ring back on Sherlock's finger. "You're mine." He said.

"Yes." Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder and they held each other.

They slept soon after and didn’t speak about it again. But John worried about Sherlock’s self-destructive streak. How long after John went away would he do something really dangerous?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read this absolutely CHARMING fic – Sherlock teaching his new lover, John Watson, how men love:Tumble Homeward by mistyzeo SO GREAT!  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/1122822/chapters/2263107


	7. Moriarty Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Research and travel are the dullest parts of any investigation. But nothing gets done without them.
> 
> "John went over his plan again - it wasn't a very good one: follow Moriarty from his office to the secluded manor where he had Sherlock. It would be difficult to avoid being detected..."

John found his seat and lowered himself into it gingerly. He had wanted to fly home, but the doctor wouldn’t clear him for flight – seems a collapsed lung kept you grounded for a while. So John was taking the train.

He checked the Nuntius app again. Nothing. He’d had no messages from Sherlock since the one two days ago that had been cut off. 

“Bloody idiot.” John swore under his breath. 

“You talking to me, John?” Stanley asked, sliding into the seat across from him.

John smiled. “No.” Stanley had drawn the short straw and was taking the train with John. Dougan was on a plane, lucky sod. 

Stan returned his smile and it occurred to John that Stanley might have volunteered to accompany him on the train. They’d started to become friends over the past few days.

“Just thinking about my options.” John told Stanley taking the coffee he'd brought for him.

The meeting with Major Sholto had given John a lot to think about. 

“You’re looking good, John.” The Major had said.

‘John.’ Not ‘Watson’ or ‘Captain.’ John. That was the first clue that the interview wouldn’t go as John expected.

“Thank you, Major.” 

“How do you feel?”

“Restless. I’ve been in bed for a week. Sit down?” 

John had finally gotten clothes - fatigues, underwear, socks, warm up pants, a sweatshirt, t-shirts, a coat. A handkerchief. And he'd gotten the personal effects that had accompanied him from Kandahar - dog tags, service weapon, ammunition, blood soaked uniform (discarded immediately), boots, body armor, the crushed remains of the sat phone...

The hospital had given him a toothbrush and other toiletries. Nothing fancy. John didn’t need fancy, he just needed to be washed and dressed. And he was – as well as he could be one-handed – and ready for a walk. Except getting ready had exhausted him. He sat down in the recliner to rest. His shoulder throbbed insistently.

Stanley had surprised John by kneeling down and tying his boot laces. He looked up wryly when he was done, but said nothing.

Dr. Snyder had come by then with a new sling. It was big and black and had velcro straps that wrapped around the body and secured it in place. John hated it immediately. He would have to wear it for six weeks.

Major Sholto pulled a hard chair over and sat down. His knee brushed against John’s leg. He held a binder in his hand – John noticed he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring. John looked at his own, his left hand protruding from the sling, the platinum band glimmering dully. He felt a wave of anxiety and impatience. Why was he just sitting here when Sherlock was in trouble?

“...you’ll be discharged.” John’s attention snapped back to Sholto. 

“From the hospital.”

“From the army, John.”

“Discharged?” Sherlock would be thrilled. Godammit he should BE HERE! “Discharged.” 

John didn’t know how he felt. He supposed he was thrilled too. Or he would be when Sherlock was home. “But... what about my post? My hospital?”

“It’s all taken care of, John. We’ve been planning to recall troops from that area and close the field hospital. You would have been reassigned soon anyway. You’ve been shot. You know what that does to a body better than most. It’s going to take a good deal of time for you to heal. Put that husband of yours to work helping you.... what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Sholto touched the empty space where his wedding ring had been. “Where is Sherlock? I’d have thought he’d be underfoot.”

“Yeah. Erm. He’s on a case. For his brother, it’s classified...” John shrugged with one shoulder. He glanced at Stanley out in the hallway. Stan saw him looking and smiled.

Major Sholto touched John’s hand, snapping his attention back into the room. “Is everything OK, John? With Sherlock?”

No, it wasn’t. “It will be.” John said. “When we both get home. It’s been a long three years.”

Sholto nodded. “If you ever need anything, John. You can count on me.”

“Thanks...erm... thank you, James.” John squeezed his hand, the one that covered his own and Sholto withdrew it. He opened the binder and started outlining the discharge protocol and the rehabilitation facilities available to him. John’s mind wandered away again.

That was yesterday. Today John was going to London. Tomorrow... tomorrow John would finally go after Sherlock.

John had not been idle. He’d spent every spare second on the smartphone, looking for his man. 

These were the things he knew from Sherlock's messages:  
-the name 'Moriarty'  
-Moriarty is a maths professor at a smaller university in the U.K.  
-he owns or has access to a secluded country estate  
-he’s brilliant 

It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough.

John’s first search was for the best maths departments in U.K. universities. The list wasn’t short. John ruled out any in Ireland - even though ‘Moriarty’ was an Irish name, taking a drugged man across the water was more complicated than taking him over land.

None of the universities had faculty named 'Moriarty.' John wasn't surprised that it might be an alias.

John spent hours staring at maps, looking at which of the schools had enough open land around them to have a secluded country estate. He was able to rule out anything in and around London quickly, but other cities were slower going. He turned to maps of population density - and crossed off anything in the central corridor of Britain. The north and the west counties looked most promising.

Of schools outside or on the edge of those areas, four stood out. Exeter, Leeds, Durham and Aberystwyth in Wales. John began scrutinizing their faculty.

He was looking for a brilliant professor – he would have to have published. John crossed out women and the men over 60 and under 30. He ruled out anyone too junior or too new - he wanted a man with tenure, perhaps someone who had inexplicably stopped advancing at a certain point. Then John went through bios and photos. He did image searches of faculty, he searched them all on Facebook and examined what he could see of their profiles. He eliminated anyone with a happy family - Moriarty wouldn't have a wife and children that he was close to.

Then he crossed off a man that was ugly and two who were fat. Then he impulsively crossed off a man who was quite good looking. Moriarty wouldn’t stand out like that. He’d expect to attract Sherlock with his intellect.

Then John started sifting through a numbing amount of papers on higher maths. 

He hit a wall. John simply couldn’t separate the brilliant from the excellent from the average. He didn’t have the mathematical expertise.

Stanley saw him throw down his pen in frustration and rub his eyes. It was late, John didn’t know how late, but it was dark and quiet.

“Anything I can help with, John?” Stanley asked.

John sighed. “Depends. How are you at advanced maths?”

Stanley chuckled. “It’s not my specialty.” He said. “What are you looking for?”

“Oh... I’m trying to narrow down this list of maths professors, work out who is... exceptional... not merely accomplished. But I don’t have the maths.”

Stanley sat forward, interested. “I DO have experience in research. I’m not just security. Can I?” He asked, indicating the pad of paper with John’s notes.

“Be my guest.” John said, shoving the paper in Stanley’s direction.

“Let’s not look at the papers, let’s look at the reception the papers received. Truly brilliant work is remembered, remarked on, expanded. We’ll look for work that created a buzz.”

John nodded, hopeful. “That could work.”

Stanley pulled his own smartphone out of his pocket. “Let’s split up the list.” He said. They worked together, discussing search terms, showing each other what they found, narrowing the field.... it took hours, but eventually John thought they had it. 

It was a treatise on the Binomial Theorem, lauded throughout the mathematical world. It was said to ascend to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics that no one in the scientific press was capable of criticizing it.

John looked at Stanley, sitting across from him on the train. He was big, tall and broad with strong arms and thick thighs – all somewhat camouflaged by his sober gray suit. He was blond with cornflower blue eyes and his face had a slavic cast – his last name was a challenge for English speakers. Stanley had laughingly told John that he was descended from the royal family of a country that no longer existed. But his accent was pure Brixton.

He hadn’t asked why John was searching for a maths professor and John hadn’t told him. But Stanley worked for Mycroft and he knew Sherlock by reputation. That Sherlock wasn’t where he was supposed to be was apparent, Stanley could certainly guess what John was doing.

They had to change trains in Paris for the Eurostar to London – they had 50 minutes to make the connection. John didn’t understand how sitting still for three hours had made him so tired. He walked through the crowds in Gare du Nord with Stanley feeling impatient to be home.

The ‘depart’ board had their train and they made their way to the tracks to wait. There were armed police loitering nearby, one nodded to John – acknowledgment of the uniform John wore. 

Suddenly John was shoved hard – his shoulder exploded with pain and he stumbled forwards, headfirst towards the tracks, tripping over his hand luggage and falling...

Strong hands grabbed him and pulled him back, not that John was fully aware of what was happening – the pain was so intense. It took a moment before he realized that Stanley was supporting him. 

“John? John, are you ok?” 

John clung to Stanley, desperately trying to catch his breath, trying to get a handle on the pain. Stanley held him tightly. 

"John?"

“Erm...yeah...I need to... sit down.” John panted.

But the first step had John gasping again. "Wait... wait." He said. "It hurts." Stanley had inadvertently wrenched his wounded shoulder in the effort to stop his fall onto the tracks. John had felt the metal flex and shift within his flesh, it felt shredded.

Stanley nodded his understanding and let John rest in his arms. John pressed his forehead into Stanley's shoulder and gritted his teeth. When the pain felt more manageable, he let Stanley lead him to a bench. Stan rousted the occupants with a terse “Bouge!” John sat and tried to stay completely still. 

“Did you see who pushed me?” John asked when the pain had receded to a more manageable level.

“No.” Stanley said. “Too crowded. Wait here a minute.” He approached the police and spoke to them in impeccable French. John didn’t even attempt to follow the conversation, focusing instead on his breathing, trying flush the adrenaline from his system. 

“One of the ‘Policiers’ saw him before he disappeared into the crowd. It wasn’t accidental, you were targeted, John.”

John nodded. He felt nauseated, exhausted.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. John took one of the pills Snyder had prescribed for pain. He closed his eyes on the train and dozed, but the throbbing kept him from sleep. They arrived at St. Pancras in the evening and Stanley helped John from the train. John went straight into the Boots and bought a big bottle of paracetamol. 

He dry swallowed a couple of the pills immediately.

Stanley walked with him to the cab stand. "I'll drop you first then take the cab home." Stan suggested. John nodded numbly and climbed in.

“Thanks.” John said as the taxi rolled up Baker St. and stopped. “For everything.”

“Take this.” Stanley said, holding out a card. “That’s my mobile. If you’re thinking of going to visit your maths professor – or doing anything... strenuous...give me a call.”

“Erm... thank you, Stan.”

“Mr. Holmes would approve.” He said. “Watch your back, John.”

“I will, Stanley. Goodbye.” They shook hands warmly and John got out of the taxi.

 

\----

 

Home. 

John hadn’t been to the flat on Baker street for almost a year – Sherlock had met John abroad for his last leave.

It was much as it always was. A bit musty, maybe – empty for too many days. And too quiet. Mrs. Hudson must be out. And Sherlock... 

John felt his absence more keenly here where he was supposed to be. Where everything was his or covered with his things. Or marred by his stabs, gouges, gunshots and burns.

It was early yet, but John was tired. He went into their bedroom and undressed. There was blood on his bandages – he might have ripped some stitches at Gare du Nord. It certainly FELT ripped to shreds. He made his way into the loo and swallowed more paracetamol with water from the tap. His shoulder ached badly, but John didn't like how the oxy made him feel.

John went back to their bedroom and slid between the sheets. 

It smelled like Sherlock.

John felt the tears welling. He felt Sherlock’s absence deep inside.

He had done everything he could think of to keep Sherlock... satisfied while he was away. He’d taken leave as often as possible and spent every second of it with Sherlock. He’d called and texted constantly and skyped – they would have skype sex at least once a week (telling Sherlock how to touch himself via Skype was almost as fun as in person). If he thought Sherlock was getting restless, John texted Lestrade, asked him to find Sherlock SOMETHING to work on.

The whispered confessions on their wedding night – drugs?! John had had no idea that Sherlock had dabbled in drugs, serious drugs, before they met. He wasn’t really worried that Sherlock would start taking cocaine again, and he knew it wasn’t up to him to keep Sherlock off drugs. But he had felt Sherlock’s deep well of pain... he knew now what Sherlock carried around with him. To much time without a good case - or good sex - and he’d start to dwell on it...

How had John missed the signs that Sherlock had got ...bored?

...John was falling, someone had shoved him and he was falling. He was alone in the desert, the sun hot even though it was early in the day. He could hear helicopters in the distance. And gunfire. And an increasingly chaotic stew of shouting and shooting and explosions...Davies landed her helicopter and John admired the soft curves of her compact form...she was shouting at him but John couldn’t understand her. John knew he was going to die, but he didn’t know how. Just that Moriarty wanted him dead so he would have to die. Moriarty had no problem reaching all the way to Afghanistan. He pulled the trigger and John was laying in the sand... laying there even though he should be up helping the wounded soldiers... even though he should be up looking for Sherlock... Moriarty’s long arms encircled him, they pulled tighter, contracting around him, suffocating him...

 

\----

 

John was up early and on the road. He was AWOL – he hadn’t checked in at the barracks last night or this morning. John did not care. He had appointments to have his shoulder examined and to start physical therapy today. He didn’t care.

He’d downed paracetamol with his coffee and arrived at the rental office as they opened. He had a five hour drive and nothing to do but worry about what would happen when he got there.

He made good time and arrived at Aberystwyth University by lunchtime. John had studied the virtual tour and the campus map on the website, so he knew what he was looking for. He drove through campus, orienting himself. Then he parked. 

John walked back through the campus – just an ordinary guy in jeans and a jumper, maybe a bit older than the students, but blending in nonetheless. The sling marked him, made him more noticeable - as did the desert tan, it stood out amongst the pale Welsh. Sherlock would take note of these things (and the slight bulge of John's service revolver comfortingly tucked into his waistband below the sling) so John had to assume Moriarty would too. But everyone else? John moved among them without attracting attention.

His shoulder ached, throbbing with every step.

He made his way to the Mathematics Department. It took him a while to find the department offices – he had to ask a student to direct him. And then there it was: a closed door with a nameplate reading:

Marion Belator  
Mathematics

Moriarty!

Belator’s office hours were posted and John got lucky, he would be in this afternoon. John noted the time and left the building. 

He should eat, but he wasn’t hungry. He made his way back towards his car trying to think of something to eat that sounded appetizing. He'd had naught but coffee and paracetamol since half noon yesterday when he and Stanley had shared French cheese sandwiches at Gare du Nord.

He went over his plan again - it wasn't a very good one: follow Moriarty from his office to the secluded manor where he had Sherlock. It would be difficult to avoid being detected...

Someone bumped into John from behind - hard - and the pain from his shoulder punched through him taking his breath away. "Uhf!" He grunted.

Before John could even react, there was an arm around his neck and a sharp pinch near his jugular. John's legs buckled. He realized woozily he'd been drugged. 

His last thought was that he'd been detected before even attempting to tail Moriarty...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 coming soon - will John finally find Sherlock?


	8. The Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What could Sherlock Holmes have possibly seen in you that was worth his time and affection?”
> 
> “You’d have to ask him.” John said.
> 
> “I’m asking you!” Moriarty snapped. “I thought maybe you had some special... physical attribute...” His eyes traveled mockingly down John’s naked body. “... that attracted him. But you are... completely average in every way.” 
> 
> John shrugged again. “Then you have no reason to be threatened.”

John was cold.

That was the first thing John thought. COLD.

The cold was unpleasant, his toes were numb with it. The hard stone underneath him leeched the heat from his body. His balls were contracted tightly into the warmth of his torso. His fingers felt icy against his skin.

His shoulder ached like a motherfucker.

That’s right. Fuck! He’d been bloody shot. 

In the war. In bloody, hot Afghanistan. Where was he now?

John opened his eyes. The dark was almost absolute. To his right there was a slight gray line, light beyond a crack – the only thing that differentiated open eyes from closed.

He bent his legs, drew his feet up towards his bum, placing them flat on the rough stone floor. He pushed himself upright with his good arm, gasping at the pain that moving caused. He sat still for a moment, collecting himself. 

He was naked, denuded not only of clothes, but of the sling and bandages as well. His frozen fingers ghosted over his injured shoulder, feeling the puckered edges of healing incisions, hard metal screws under the skin, dried blood...

He reached out. Nothing. Slowly, he eased himself onto his feet and stood, hand reaching above him in case the ceiling was too low to stand upright. Standing, he shuffled forwards until he felt a wall with his good hand. (The other he kept tucked tightly against his body.) He kept his hand on the stone wall and walked carefully towards the gray line. It wasn’t far – two meters, perhaps. It delineated the seam between stone and wood. He tried to wedge his fingers into the crack, but it was tiny. He walked the perimeter of the room, hand on the wall. It was under a minute before he was back at the crack – back at the door to his cell. 

Where was he!?

John made a concerted effort to remember. It came back to him in chunks – being home last night in their flat on Baker St., Sherlock missing, renting a car and driving to the Welsh coast looking for him...the attack at Gare du Nord yesterday...the attack on the campus of Aberystwyth University... Moriarty!

John pounded on the wooden door. “Belator!” He shouted. “Moriarty!” No answer. He pounded on the door again.

He really hoped Moriarty’s plan wasn’t to leave him in this cell until he died from hypothermia.

He shouted some more and continued pounding. Eventually he crouched down, drawing his knees against his chest for warmth and leaned against the wooden door. It wasn’t as cold as the stone.

John had no sense of the time alone there in the dark – it could have been ten minutes, it could have been an hour, but an interminable time later, John heard footsteps. He stood and pounded on the door again. “Let me out, Moriarty!”

“Stand away from the door, Dr. Watson.” The voice was muffled, but John could still hear the disdain.

“Yes! I’ve stepped back.” John said.

He heard the sounds of the door being unbarred and unlocked. Then the sliver of gray transformed into a searing rectangle of white light. John blinked, dazzled.

“You can come out, Dr. Watson. Slowly.”

John stepped into the light, blinking, his eyes straining to adjust. He faced a man, an ordinary looking man with a thin face and straight salt and pepper hair. He was average height – taller than John, but not a lot – and slim. He wore a dark tweed suit complete with waistcoat and watch chain.

“Belator.” John said, recognizing him. “Or do you prefer ‘Moriarty?’”

“Professor Moriarty will do.” He gestured and John realized he was holding a pistol. “Up the stairs, slowly. I’d rather not shoot you.”

John nodded and walked where the man pointed. The stair was stone and curving, circling up out of the depths. It was old, possibly here before the house on top of it. John was relieved when he reached the top and found a carpet on the stone floor of an empty servants hall. And it was warm. He turned to face Moriarty.

“Mr. Holmes told me that you and he were estranged. Is that true?”

“Yes.” John lied.

“Yet you still wear your wedding ring.”

John looked down at his left hand, pressed tightly against his abdomen to try and keep his broken shoulder stable. He still had the platinum band. “Habit.” John said.

“Then why are you HERE, Dr. Watson? Why come looking for Sherlock if you are no longer together?”

“We were together for a long time. I still care about him. I care what happens to him.”

“Do you? You seemed to have moved on rather swiftly. Your new boyfriend is very solicitous.”

John felt a moment of confusion. Then he understood – Stanley. John shrugged his good shoulder. “How long have you been watching me?”

“Long enough. Mr. Holmes is here of his own volition. He’s not in any danger. You’ve wasted your time, Dr. Watson.”

John nodded. “As soon as he tells me that himself, I’ll go.”

Moriarty regarded John for a long moment. He walked partway around him, scrutinizing him. John felt even more naked under his gaze, like he was being dissected. He resisted the urge to cover himself. “What could Sherlock Holmes have possibly seen in you that was worth his time and affection?”

“You’d have to ask him.” John said.

“I’m asking you!” Moriarty snapped. “I thought maybe you had some special... physical attribute...” His eyes traveled mockingly down John’s naked body. “... that attracted him. But you are... completely average in every way.” 

John shrugged again. “Then you have no reason to be threatened.”

Moriarty practically snarled at him. Then he controlled himself. “I’ve done my research. Sherlock had no one before you, showed no interest at all. What did you do to him?”

“If you’ve done your research, then you know it was Sherlock who approached me. I was straight. He convinced me to change my life for him.”

“I don’t understand it.” Moriarty looked John over again and sneered.

“To be perfectly honest, Professor Moriarty, neither do I.” John said coldly. “But it worked.”

Moriarty cocked the gun and pointed it at John. “He must have said something – all those years, you must have asked him.”

“Yes.” John said. “I asked. All he ever said was that I was decent and brave. He liked that I’m a doctor, that I help people. And he liked that I can handle myself in a fight.”

“But that’s nothing! You’re nothing next to him. His intellect –”

“It’s not about intellect.” John cut in. “It’s everything else, the intangibles. You tell yourself you want him because he’s brilliant, but what you want is not to be bored. Sherlock was never bored with me!”

“I am going to skin you alive.” Moriarty’s fury was palpable.

John shrugged again. “Have at it. You’ll never understand what Sherlock wants. You’ll never know how to please him.”

“OK.” Moriarty was calm again, his changeable nature jarring. “How did you ‘please’ him?’

“I don’t kiss and tell, Professor.”

“I could make you tell me.”

“You could make me tell you a great many things. No guarantee any of it will be true.”

“You should be afraid of me, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m a soldier. Soldiers are used to fear. We know how to carry on despite fear.”

“I can’t intimidate you?”

“You haven’t yet.”

Moriarty paced thoughtfully “Why did you break up?!” He demanded.

“Extended separations are hard on relationships.”

“You really think that if you hadn’t gone to war, you would still be with Sherlock?”

“I know I would.”

“Did you come here to get him back?”

“I have Stanley now. I came here to make sure Sherlock isn’t in any danger.”

“How does Stanley feel about that? You chasing after your ex?”

“I didn’t ask him.”

“Do you want to? Ask him?” Moriarty asked with a superior smile.

“No.” John said, suspicion flooding his brain, making his limbs feel weak. “It’s not his business.”

“Are you sure? I went to so much trouble to get him here.” Moriarty pointed the gun at a door on the far side of the hall. “Open it.”

John did as he was told, padding across the carpet in his bare feet, gooseflesh prickling over his skin. The key was in the lock. John turned it and pushed the door open... 

John staggered back, retching. “Why!?” He demanded, the image of blood in the blond hair, on the muscular chest, one cornflower blue eye staring blankly, the other a bloody pit, burned on his brain. “He wasn’t part of this! Goddammit! He did nothing to you!”

“He interfered, Dr. Watson. You should be dead three times over.”

“Paris!” John said. “It was you – of course it was bloody you.”

“Did you ever doubt it?”

“No.” John said with loathing. “Why do you think I’m here? If you’d left me alone, left me in Afghanistan, I would have never known Sherlock was in trouble.” And I would have never gotten Stanley killed. John thought. Sweet, helpful, wonderful Stanley...

“But you can’t be allowed to live. You’ve... touched him. You’ve marked him. He needs to be cleansed.”

“You’re fucking insane.”

“You’re just getting that now?”

“It won’t make any difference, Moriarty. He’ll never want you like he wanted me – like he WANTS me. That part of our relationship never went bad.”

“He wants me. He’s just still... mourning you. He thinks you’re dead already.”

“You don’t know anything about human nature, Moriarty." John laughed. "People in mourning fuck all the time. It’s an affirmation of life. They shag like rabbits...”

“Shut up!”

“HE DOESN’T WANT YOU...”

“SHUT UP!” Moriarty advanced on John.

“You can kill me, but you’ll NEVER understand what we had together. You’ll NEVER have it.”

He pistol whipped John savagely. John felt himself going down...

 

\----

 

For the second time, John slowly regained consciousness. His head ached abominably but his shoulder hurt so badly he hardly noticed the headache. He shifted his weight and regretted it immediately – searing pain shot through his torso and down his arm. He realized his hands were tied behind him. Not the best position for a broken humerus and shattered scapula...

He wasn’t in the cellar this time. He was sitting, tied to a chair in the dark – it was bloody brilliant, any movement on his part was agony. He thought he was facing a door, given the rectangle of light that shone around it – yes, there were the hinges. John’s best guess was that he was in a pantry or closet.

He was gagged. Not just gagged, there was a large wad of cloth in his mouth, the gag tied tightly enough he couldn’t spit it out. And his face was sticky. Blood, John decided. Moriarty must have broken the skin when he hit him on the head.

John’s spirits sagged. Moriarty hadn’t killed him yet but he would. John had no doubt that he would die soon – probably rather horribly – at Moriarty’s hand. He had to find a way to warn Sherlock before he died.

And Jesus! Poor Stanley... he’d been tortured... John made a concerted effort to dismiss the gory image of his dead friend. Given half a chance, John would tear Moriarty limb from bloody limb.

There was a noise – John started, jarring his shoulder and reeling from the pain. It took a moment for John to recover himself. 

“My dear Sherlock! You look well this evening.” It was Moriarty’s voice on the other side of the door. John screamed into his gag, but he could barely hear himself through the wads of cloth. And for good measure, Moriarty started music playing low in the background. “Sherry?”

“No, no, sherry gives me a headache. You go ahead.” It was Sherlock! And he sounded unharmed. John could have cried with relief. He screamed again, but instead of being heard, he just missed some of the conversation.

“....latest experiment?” Moriarty.

“It’s fascinating. I’ve been replicating the DNA of others using my own blood. I could, for example, commit murder and leave a bit of this blood at the crime scene, incriminating the person who’s DNA I had manufactured.”

“Fantastic! I’m delighted you are enjoying your ‘chemical table.’ I should have an entire laboratory fitted out for you. I can think of a dozen uses for your manufactured DNA.”

“I thought you might, dear James.”

“Come here...” Moriarty's voice sounded tender. Then there was silence. John imagined the loathsome Moriarty kissing Sherlock...

“James... You know I’m rather cold. John often complained about my low libido.” 

HA! John thought. Low libido, my arse. There was never a time that Sherlock wasn’t gagging for it.

“You still miss John.”

“No. Our time had come to an end. But I didn’t wish him dead.”

“Brave men, decent men, die in war.” John’s own words in Moriarty’s mouth sounded corrupted. “And by all accounts, Dr. Watson was brave and decent.”

“By all accounts? Dear James, who have you been talking to?”

“I’ve been curious. You say so little about him...”

“What is there to say? John was a distraction – at the time, a much needed distraction.”

“Lie down, let me pet your head.” There was a pause and John imagined Sherlock on a couch, Moriarty’s fingers in his unruly black curls. “I love your hair.”

“John used to say that. He would do very much what you’re doing right now.”

“Would he?” Moriarty’s voice was sharp.

“You don’t like that, my dear James? YOU never need to be jealous of HIM.”

“You say that, but you spent so much time with him. You married him.”

“If I burdened myself with a little help-mate, it wasn’t out of sentiment or caprice. John had many fine qualities, not least the extraordinary contrast he provided.”

Moriarty guffawed. “He made you look good? Next to drab little John, you looked smarter and taller and better-looking? No, I don’t believe that. You’re vain, to be sure. But marriage? He was already your devoted pet.” 

“It was ONLY a Civil Partnership. I got swept up in the current when John was preparing to go to Afghanistan. My devoted pet was leaving me and I wanted reassurance.”

“I want reassurance, Sherlock.” There was shuffling, bodies moving around. “You say you love me, but you give me so little.”

“You don’t tell me what you want.” Sherlock said softly. 

THAT hit John harder than anything else Sherlock had said. The rest was Sherlock playing a part, trying to reel Moriarty in. This – THIS was something else. This was sex. Sherlock was offering himself to Moriarty, all Moriarty had to do was take him. It cut John to the quick.

Without thinking, John thumped his chair, rocked it so legs left the ground and slammed back down onto the floor. He screamed in pain as his shoulder exploded.

“What was that?” Sherlock asked.

Pain be damned, John pitched himself forward to crash into the door. His head hit it with a solid ‘thunk’ then John had the presence of mind to lean towards his good arm as the chair began to topple over. The pain took him, screaming, to the floor. The impact took his consciousness again...

...but only briefly. John came back to himself as someone was pulling on the door, jiggling it back and forth trying to open it. John could barely breathe between the agony pulsating from his shoulder and the suffocating gag. Lying on his side in the small space, he couldn’t move at all now.

“James! What is in here?!” More jiggling, then the door popped open. John blinked in the sudden flood of light, a tall silhouette looming over him. “John?”

And then Sherlock was on his knees tugging at the gag with frantic fingers, blind to the second silhouette standing behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a work in progress.


	9. Moriarty's New Pet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Explain it to me." Moriarty demanded. "Explain what you saw in him – seven years, Sherlock! You were with him for seven years, even when you had the opportunity to be with me.”

John made eye contact with Sherlock and then looked up at Moriarty, jerking his head slightly in time with his eyes. 

Sherlock's eyes darted to the bloody cut on John's scalp, then to John's shoulder – lurid with bruises, blood, and incisions snaking around the pitted and scabbed bullet wound – then he looked back into John's eyes. Everything was in his face, how much he loved John, how worried he was by John's condition, how sorry he was to have gotten him into this situation, how much he believed that they could get themselves out of it...

John shook his head infinitesimally - 'I'm fine' - and again looked up towards Moriarty, almost frantic. 

One second of communication, that's all they had, and they understood each other perfectly. 

Sherlock turned to face Moriarty swiftly, standing in the same motion. “My dear James, explain yourself.” Sherlock spoke warmly, his hand on Moriarty's arm.

It disarmed Moriarty. If he had intended Sherlock harm, he forgot immediately. “Sherlock, I... you've caught me out...”

“You told me he had been killed.”

“Sherlock... dear Sherlock, you must understand, I needed to know that it was really over with him...” 

“I knew you didn’t trust me, James, but I thought I could trust you.” 

Sherlock pushed past Moriarty, moving away from the doorway, leaving John on the floor, still tied and gagged. Moriarty followed. John started to worry at the rope that bound his wrists, they were looser now than when he’d been upright.

 “I WANT to trust you, Sherlock.” Moriarty said. 

“What else do I need to do?" Sherlock asked softly. "I’ve given you everything you’ve asked. I’ve given you EVERYTHING.” 

John felt ill. He’d told Sherlock to sleep with Moriarty if necessary, but he’d told himself it WOULDN’T be necessary.

“Not everything." All warmth had left his voice.

“What have I held back?” Sherlock's passion contrasted with Moriarty's chill.

“Not in front of HIM.” Moriarty hissed. Sherlock paced into John’s limited frame of vision.

“Oh please.” Sherlock threw up his hands. “Why tell me he had been killed? You must have known I’d discover otherwise. It was a senseless lie.”

“I needed to see your reaction.”

“And? Did I pass?” Sherlock paused, but received no answer. “Obviously I didn’t or you wouldn’t have John tied up in the closet.”

“No, Sherlock, this is a misunderstanding…” Moriarty's voice was warm again.

“What aren’t I understanding?” Sherlock asked pointedly.

“I didn’t bring him here…”

“Then how is John here? The truth, James!" 

“He came looking for you!”

Sherlock smirked. “He always was a loyal pet.”

“Is that all he was to you?” Suspicion in every syllable.

“What else COULD he be?”

“He was your lover! I feared… I thought you might go back to him." 

“James, I'm not the only one who found his pet a convenient outlet!" Sherlock sounded quite put out. He stalked out of John's sight.

Moriarty followed him. "Sebastian is nothing next to you, dear Sherlock."

"Yet you keep him."

"He has many uses..."

"Yes, you USE him regularly."

"Only as an outlet - I have urges that I'd never ask you to satisfy." Moriarty was pleading with Sherlock.

"I'm just supposed to accept your other lover in this house!?"

"You know it's not like that. You never need worry about him."

"And you don't have to worry about HIM.” Sherlock said. “Look at him.”

“Yes! Look at him!" Now Moriarty was contemptuous. "At least Sebastian is beautiful. Why did you ever want such a drab, little nobody? I can’t understand it. It plagues me.”

“Oh, James…” 

“No, you can’t distract me this time!” Moriarty exclaimed angrily.

He walked back into John’s view. How had Sherlock distracted him before?! 

“Explain it to me." Moriarty demanded. "Explain what you saw in him – seven years, Sherlock! You were with him for seven years, even when you had the opportunity to be with me.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, his irritation plain on his face. “For one thing, John never demanded that I explain myself. I could do what I wished and KNOW there wouldn’t be a... a jealous tirade. He didn’t lie to me or make me prove my trustworthiness. He trusted me implicitly. It’s a very attractive quality.”

“You shouldn’t toy with me, Sherlock.” Moriarty’s voice was low, dangerous. Sherlock had said too much.

There was a brief pause then Sherlock sighed. “He was a devoted pet who did my bidding without question. Until he cheated on me with a female soldier. I wanted nothing to do with him after that.”

John watched Moriarty’s stony face slowly soften. “My dear Sherlock, why didn’t you just say so?”

Sherlock scoffed slightly. “You know how vain I am, James. How could I admit it to you?”

“Dear Sherlock…” And this time, John saw the kiss. Moriarty touching Sherlock’s face, drawing him close. Sherlock’s soft smile as he leaned down. Moriarty pulling Sherlock closer, the kiss intensifying… deepening... Sherlock tensing up, trying to go with Moriarty’s lead, trying not to pull away…

John almost had his good hand out of the binding. Unfortunately, it was under him, the chair pressing into his forearm. And his feet were securely tied. John tried to move his left arm, see what he could do. Moving his hand and wrist wasn’t too bad, from the elbow was bad, from the shoulder was excruciating. John had to stop and breathe deeply for a moment, let the pain fade a little.

Moriarty sighed in frustration, pushing Sherlock away from him.

“Don’t stop.” Sherlock said. 

“You don’t want it. You never want it.”

“I do. You know I find it… difficult…”

“Was it difficult with him?” Moriarty aimed a kick at John’s shin. John grunted with the pain and jerked reflexively, causing more pain to bloom from his shoulder.

“Yes.” Sherlock lied. “We rarely had relations…”

“You lie!” Moriarty was furious, he struck out, slapping Sherlock. “You don’t think I KNOW!? You let him fuck you in alleyways like a whore! You knelt down in filth for him. It wasn’t ‘difficult.’” He slapped Sherlock again and John pulled his good hand from under the chair, the noise muffled in the chaos. “You BEGGED for it. FROM HIM!”

“It was the drugs!” Sherlock cried defensively.

That stopped Moriarty cold, his hand still raised to strike. “What?!” 

“James, don’t make me….” Sherlock hid his face and moved out of John’s line of sight.

Moriarty went after him, grabbed him. “You! Will! Tell! Me!”

“Methamphetamine.” Sherlock whispered. “He gave me methamphetamine.”

That was bollocks, of course. But Sherlock was selling it. John almost believed it himself.

“I’m so ashamed…” Sherlock continued. “I didn’t want you to know. Dear James, what you must think of me.”

Moriarty walked away from Sherlock, across the doorway and out of sight again.

“I should pack my things.” Sherlock mumbled brokenly.

John heard the sound of a handgun cocking. Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! He'd expected this. He bloody knew Moriarty would kill him. FUCK! John just hoped Sherlock wouldn't give himself away and get killed too.

"I'll kill him." Moriarty growled. "For doing that to you!"

"What does it matter now?" Sherlock asked. John realized he was close. Sherlock slid down the doorframe to sit on the floor, his back to John, his head in his hands.

Moriarty strode over and pointed the gun at John.

Sherlock looked up at Moriarty's furious face. John could only see the back of his head, but he imagined the tear poised on his cheekbone. Sherlock reached up and took Moriarty's hand and moved the gun barrel to his own forehead. He sat up, pressing himself against the gun firmly.

"Do it, dear James. Do it so I never have to see the disgust in your eyes again."

"Sherlock..."

"DO IT!" Sherlock commanded. "Please..."

For a second, John thought he really would execute Sherlock. Then he looked up at Moriarty's face and saw the softness in his eyes. He loved Sherlock. It was twisted, more about ownership and Moriarty's IDEA of Sherlock, but it was real.

Moriarty slowly uncocked the gun and, kneeling in front of Sherlock, set the gun carefully on the floor. He pulled Sherlock to his breast and held him there, petting his head and trying to soothe his shuddering.

"We have both endured so much before we found each other." Moriarty whispered into Sherlock's hair. "There were times I thought I would not survive, times I didn't WANT to survive... but we are here, together. Dearest Sherlock, what's past is past. We won't speak of it again."

Sherlock took Moriarty's hand and kissed it. "You are too good to me." He murmured.

This time when they kissed, Sherlock yielded, let Moriarty have his way. He seemed too passive to John, almost limp, but Moriarty didn't notice.

"We should...retire... dear James..." Sherlock whispered between kisses.

Moriarty smiled and stood easily, holding out a hand to help Sherlock up. "What should we do with him?" Moriarty asked.

"Give him to Sebastian." Sherlock said.

Moriarty smiled and drew Sherlock away. John heard the door, heard their footsteps fading away.

He started working on the knots tying his feet to the chair. John needed to get free before this 'Sebastian' came for him. Sherlock had bought him this time, John would not waste it.

The look on Sherlock's face when he had first seen John – relief, horror at John's condition, contrition, anxiety. He'd been in this house for over a week, had he got what he came for? Enough evidence to bring Moriarty down? John hoped so – he didn't think Sherlock would survive here much longer. Moriarty was too changeable, he could easily kill Sherlock then regret it the next moment.

The knots were tough, especially one handed. John forced himself to calm down and focus on untying them. It was hard, knowing what Sherlock must be doing – doing for him! 

There was still music playing at a low volume – John recognized a Beethoven symphony that Sherlock fancied. Somehow THAT seemed more unbearable than anything else – that Moriarty should know Sherlock's favorite music. It didn't matter that Moriarty had spied on them and very well may have gleaned the information that way, he KNEW! John was suddenly furious with Sherlock – why in hell had he come here?! Moriarty had claimed credit for John being shot, and the timing suggested he wasn't lying – and there was no doubt about the attack in Gare du Nord, no doubt that poor Stanley was dead. 

John trusted Sherlock, trusted that the bad Moriarty was responsible for in the world was so great that it was worth their sacrifices to end him. But lying on his side, tied to a chair, naked, filthy, in pain, his wounds aggravated... John felt resentful.

Finally the knots began to yield. It took a while yet to get them undone and to untangle his feet, but John did it. Careful of his wounded shoulder, he squirmed away from the chair and sat up. He quickly worked the gag off, tossing it aside. He stood carefully. 

Then he picked up the gun Moriarty had left on the floor. John weighed it in his hand, suspicious – he couldn't believe Moriarty would leave a gun lying less than a meter from a man he'd tried to kill, locked in a dungeon, pistol whipped and tied to a chair. If Sherlock had done that, it would ONLY be because he WANTED that person to have that gun. 

John tucked it carefully in the closet, out of sight. Moriarty would think he had the gun.

He crept across the room and looked out into the hall. It was empty. He walked down the hall towards a stairwell. What was he doing? What was his plan? John wanted to grab Sherlock and leave this house – pausing only to beat Moriarty to death with his fists. 

Fist. 

Yeah. That wouldn't work. John could try to get out on his own and bring help. But Moriarty could do anything to Sherlock before John got back. 

What did Moriarty expect him to do? What did Moriarty WANT him to do?

John caught sight of himself in a mirror – he was shocked. He was almost unrecognizable to himself, dirtier and more battered than he'd imagined. He needed clothes. And shoes.

John looked at all the doors on the hall – there were three – the one he'd just left, one closed and another ajar. He listened at the door that was ajar. Nothing. He listened at the closed door. Nothing. 

Arg, John didn't trust it. It was too easy. He crept down the hall to the stairs. He made his way up to the next floor and found a corridor to another wing. He traversed it quickly. He ran up another flight of stairs, this one much plainer and narrower and found himself in servants quarters. They appeared to be empty, bare mattresses rolled on wire bed frames. John searched the rooms for something to wear.

The room on the end was a toilet. And there were towels! John longed to wash up, clean the blood off his face, some of the filth from his body. But he didn't dare turn on the water – the pipes in this big old house could betray his location. He rubbed at his face with a dry flannel and managed to get some of the blood off. He moved on, searching the rooms on the other side of the hall. Three of the rooms were occupied.

He raided the closets, finding sweatpants and a sweatshirt that were only a bit too big, a t-shirt, socks and a watch cap. He felt a thousand times better with the clothes on. 

None of the shoes fit. Two were too small and one comically large. He found a pair of flip flops and tucked them into the waistband of his trousers. If he went outdoors, he'd have the option of wearing them.

Now what? 

He found another flight of stairs, this one long and narrow. John descended. As he had expected it took him to the servants hall.

He loitered in the stairwell, listening. 

“He must have untied himself by now.” John didn’t recognize the voice.

“Give him another ten minutes. He’s exceptionally stupid.” Moriarty! He wasn’t with Sherlock! John could go find him and they could get out of here together.

“Don’t underestimate him. He’s a soldier.”

“He’s a doctor, Sebastian.” Moriarty said as if one cancelled out the other. “I want to be certain he finds Sherlock. Then we’ll see! We’ll see how Sherlock really feels.”

“Another test for your new pet?”

“And for you, dear Sebastian.” Moriarty said harshly. “You know I don’t want Sherlock harmed.”

Sebastian didn’t reply.

“He’ll have the gun.” Moriarty wheedled. “It will give him confidence. And we can trigger the explosives any time we want. He’s not a threat, Sebastian. He’s injured and weak. He hasn’t eaten or drunk anything in hours. He’ll be in the front bedroom soon, getting dressed in your old army kit. Once he does that, we can listen in on everything he does.”

“And if he doesn’t wear the army kit?”

“He will. He’ll take the path of least resistance. He’ll pick up the gun, and go into the room with the open door. He’ll wear the clothes that fit him best, that he’s most comfortable with – the fatigues. People like him are completely predictable.”

John supposed he was predictable. Or would have been if he hadn’t spent years with Sherlock. Even avoiding the traps they’d set – the gun and the bugged clothing – John had been ready to fall into their ultimate trap, finding Sherlock.

“What is your new pet doing now?” Sebastian asked.

“Lets take a look.” There was a pause, John wondered if they were leaving, but didn’t hear footsteps. “He’s in bed, but he’s restless.” Moriarty said.

“One might even say ‘fretful.’”

“Only if one wanted to annoy me.” Moriarty said coldly.

They must have a camera in Sherlock’s room. There might be other cameras. Going to Sherlock was out of the question, it would expose them both. John needed to find another way. He needed to stay hidden. He needed a weapon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAMF now, smut later


	10. Guerilla Warfare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Standing in the servants’ stairwell, listening to Sebastian and James Moriarty, John remembered his brief career as a guerilla soldier. Divide and conquer. Hit hard and fast and retreat."

John had his first leave five months after deployment. He met Sherlock in Berlin.  
   
Sherlock was at the airport, waiting for him. When John caught sight of his face, he couldn’t stop smiling. He made his way over as quickly as he could and then he was in Sherlock’s arms. It felt so wonderful! John barely heard his mates’ wolf-whistles and cat-calls as he kissed his husband.  
   
John was ‘out.’ All his mates knew he was married to Sherlock. He didn’t make an issue of it, but he didn’t hide it. He had a picture of Sherlock in his bunk, he rang and texted with Sherlock all the time. If it came up in conversation, John said ‘husband.’ It was not an issue.  
   
Mostly.  
   
The British troops were used to gay soldiers (or bisexual soldiers in same-sex relationships). They tended to take it in stride. The American troops… not so much. And the mercenaries! The soldiers that worked for the big American corporations, they were the worst.  
   
John was a likeable guy – solid, a good doctor, someone they could depend on. Someone they needed. But that didn’t mean the odd arsehole homophobe wouldn’t take a swipe. John had decided long ago that he had zero tolerance for that sort of thing. He’d been the short boy in school – the short, ginger boy – he’d had his share of bullies try to intimidate him. John learned young that he had to fight back or take shit forever. His father had taught him to box and he’d joined the rugby team and gained strength and confidence. The Army had made him a weapon.  
   
Of course, they had made all the other guys in the desert into weapons too.  
   
The first time he heard someone call him a ‘fag,’ John gave him a chance to take it back.  
   
He turned and faced the man – a broad, plain-faced merc, not much taller than John. “Yeah. I don’t think I heard you correctly.” John said tersely. “Would you care to repeat it?”  
   
“I said…I didn’t know the Brits let faggot-assed bitches like you into the army.” Then the man had added, “I say, old chap, care to bugger my arse?”  
   
John had sucker punched him almost before ‘arse’ was out of his mouth. Then he’d hit him again and when the man stumbled, John had kicked the shit out of him. “I may be a fag, but I’m nobody’s bitch.” He said.  
   
John had painful bruises on his knuckles for a month, but no one else messed with him.  
   
Until the merc got drunk and came back with a bunch of his pals.  
   
There were five of them. They were half in the bag and spoiling for a fight. John was coming off shift in the hospital. He stopped just before leaving to pick up the soiled surgery aprons that had fallen out of the bin and pile them back up. ‘That’s my good deed for the month.’ He thought to himself tiredly.  
   
It saved him. In that extra 30 seconds he overheard the pissed wankers outside boasting about how they were going to ‘get’ the ‘limey fag.’  
   
“Fuuuuuck!” He breathed. John stepped back into the hospital. He didn’t want the drunk bastards in there, but he certainly wasn’t going to walk out into their arms like roast pig on a platter. He wasn’t going to hide and cower until he thought they’d left or sneak away. He had to DO SOMETHING that would make a big enough impression that no one else would bother him. (Or any other lgbt soldier!) Preferably something that wouldn’t get him court-marshalled.  
   
It was twilight, the moon hadn’t risen yet, and this was John’s turf. He grabbed a big sharpie pen and slipped out a side door. John circled back around to where he could spy on his own personal lynch mob.  
   
Two of them were big. Alarmingly big. The other three were average. Big guys don’t get drunk as quickly, but all of them were really tossing it back. Good. John waited.  
   
Soon enough, one had to piss. He headed off by himself into the scrub. John rabbited back through the hospital to the door opposite. He located his target from the doorway – it was one of the big ones.  
   
John attacked while the man was pissing, he kicked in the man’s knee and delivered an uppercut as he fell. The guy didn’t go down easily, he put up a fight, landing several punches – but his exposed bollocks were too tempting a target. John cock-punched him twice and broke his nose as he crouched in on himself. He kicked him in the small of his back to make him writhe and used the opening to stamp on his balls. He considered kicking him in the head, but John didn’t want to HURT the guy. He let the man lay in the fetal postition and quickly pulled out the Sharpie. He wrote on the man’s face. Then he faded back into the desert scrub, out of sight of the man and returned to hospital.  
   
It wasn’t until then that John noticed he was bleeding. His chin was torn open and his knuckles were abraded. He found an empty room and gave himself a neat suture on his chin and finished it with a bandage. He changed into a spare shirt and washed up.  
   
By this time there was a bit of a ruckus outside.  
   
John left through the side entrance and walked to his bunk. When Captain Waveland asked what had happened to his chin, John said he’d slipped on the cement stairs that led to the hospital basement. Waveland half commiserated, half gave him grief. John had no other visitors that evening.  
   
The next day he heard about the big mercenary who had been found with his pants down in the scrub, beaten ‘within an inch of his life,’ with ‘FAG BASHED’ written on his face in permanent ink – as Nurse Thomas said ‘that shit don’t come off.’ The man was claiming that he was jumped by ‘a bunch of guys, at least six.’ But rampant speculation had him soliciting the wrong dude for a blowie and getting ‘wot ‘e deserved.’  
   
The next time he saw the mercenaries, John stood in plain view, arms crossed and stared at them belligerently, daring them to say or do anything.  
   
No one bothered John after that.  
 

 

\----  
   
   
Standing in the servants’ stairwell, listening to Sebastian and James Moriarty, John remembered his brief career as a guerilla soldier. Divide and conquer. Hit hard and fast and retreat.  
   
He’d been able-bodied then, and had known the hospital and surroundings intimately. Now John was wounded, one-handed, shoeless and in a large, unfamiliar house. He felt more like laying down for 12 hours of sleep than anything else. Frankly, he probably belonged in a hospital, his wound was an angry, swollen red that throbbed endlessly.  
   
But there was nothing for it. John had to fight.  
   
As he ran silently back up the stairs, John thought about the three people who lived in the servants’ quarters – he’d been careful not to disturb their rooms much, but they’d miss their things soon enough. AND they were, presumably, somewhere in the house. So he had at least five targets, two extremely dangerous, three unknowns. On the first floor, he exited the stairwell – from a door that turned out to be disguised as a wall panel under the grand staircase. The first floor would be the best place to start looking for weapons.  
   
God, he wished he had a gun. He could just shoot the bastards and be done with it. Maybe there was a game room…  
   
John found himself in a formal dining room – it made sense it would be close to the servants’ door. He hefted a silver candle stick, but put it down. He could come back if he needed it. He walked through into a library. The fifth room he investigated was a game room. BINGO! There were billiards, John put a couple billiard balls in his pockets. He was investigating the cues when he saw the cricket bat in the corner. Brilliant! He hefted the bat – it wasn’t the easiest thing to wield one-handed, but it would still be a formidable weapon.  
   
He quickly examined the rest of the room, hoping for dueling pistols or an elephant gun, but there was nothing. He was about to leave when he spotted the sword. Carrying two pool cues, the bat and the sword, John snuck back through the first floor into the servants’ stairwell. He stowed everything but the bat and crept back down to the servants’ hall.  
   
He listened for a while, but heard nothing. He risked a look. A tall, blonde man was walking away from John into the kitchen. Sebastian? John crept into the hall and investigated the rooms that opened onto it. The first still held poor Stanley. The adrenaline rush of anger made him want to rush Sebastian – he controlled himself. The second was empty, the third had a bank of monitors showing different rooms of the house. Sherlock was on one of the screens, sitting on a bed with Moriarty. He was stroking Sherlock’s hair.  
   
John put that out of his mind and left the room, not wanting Sebastian to find him there. He found a dim corner where he could crouch behind a banquet – he could see the room, but would be difficult to see if one were walking in from the kitchen. He waited.  
   
Waiting was always the hardest part. But it was part of being a soldier and part of being an army doctor. John had gotten good at waiting.  
   
It took a while. John’s legs were starting to cramp. But finally Sebastian walked back into the hall. He was carrying a sandwich and a bottle of beer and suddenly John was famished. He was HUNGRY. And thirsty, goddammit.  
   
But he had to focus. He waited until the man was back to the little room with the monitors. He was certain to have his back to John. John crept across the hall, bent low. Sure enough, Sebastian had his back to the door. Quickly, John struck, swinging he cricket bat overhand, bringing it down on the blonde head… but at the last second, Sebastian dodged. The bat hit a glancing blow to his shoulder, but that did nothing to slow him down. He grabbed the beer bottle - heedless of the liquid splashing out - and threw it at John before he could get the bat up to parry. It hit his bad shoulder. John jumped back just out of Sebastian’s reach and brought the bat up to his chest. The two men faced each other, both in a fighter’s stance, both ready to strike. It was then that John saw his reflection clearly on the monitors. He sighed in disgust at his own stupidity.  
   
“I told him not to underestimate you.” Sebastian said. “I was a soldier too, I’m not so easy to fool with the ‘just an average bloke’ act you put on.” He grinned and pulled an evil looking knife from his boot.  
   
“I AM just an average bloke.” John said, dodging a lunge from the knife. "And so was Stanley." John swung the bat and connected with Sebastian's forearm. He almost dropped the knife - but then he grabbed the bat. Instead of tug-o-war – that John knew he'd lose – he shoved the bat into Sebastian's chest, hard, knocking the wind out of him. Then yanked it back. He realized he had used his left hand to stabilize the move. He'd regret that later, he was sure.

"That's right." Sebastian said, ready to lunge and parry. "The 'new' boyfriend. If it’s any consolation, he died well, Captain Watson – he was brave. He didn't beg or plead for his life. I ended his suffering early – out of respect. He said to tell you he loved you. Jawnnnn."

John knew he was being baited, but it was hard to hold himself back. "YOU killed him? Moriarty not want to get his hands dirty?"

"Oh, James never kills anyone he doesn't have to. He outsources. I am always happy to oblige." He lunged suddenly, John sidestepped the knife and Sebastian used the movement to punch hard into John's injured shoulder . 

John howled in pain and swung the cricket bat wildly. By some miracle, he connected with the side of Sebastian's head. John pushed his advantage, grabbing the handle with both hands and slamming the backswing into the man's head again. Sebastian was brought to his knees. He lunged for John, wielding the knife. John, in control of the bat now, smashed it down on his knife hand. He swung back upwards and caught Sebastian underneath the chin. He crumpled, falling to hands and knees. John kicked the knife away and readied the bat for another strike. Sebastian didn't move. Finally he looked up at John, his jaw was crushed and blood streamed from one ear.   
   
"Finish it." Sebastian demanded, the words clear despite the shattered jaw. "I won't beg. Finish me like I finished your Stanley."

John wanted to. He really wanted to kill this bastard. He took a half-step back. “No.” He said. “I’m going to lock you in the basement.” In the stone cell that John had woken up in.

With a guttural cry, Sebastian launched himself at John again. John brought the bat straight down onto Sebastian's head and crushed it. Sebastian collapsed on the carpet which soaked up his blood in an ever-widening stain. John dropped the bat, sickened.

John took a deep breath, another... then his arm and shoulder erupted into agony...John staggered under the pain. He managed to get to the empty room next to the monitor room before collapsing. He pulled himself into a corner and curled up into a fetal ball, shaking uncontrollably.

He had swung the bat with both hands, his broken humerus and screwed together collarbone taking the force of the backswings, the motions themselves far beyond the range his broken bones could take. 

John lay there for a long time, his shaking slowing and gradually stopping. He fell into a doze – he felt aware of the nightmare around him, but really his consciousness surfaced only briefly, here and there, like a stone skipping across the water. 

He awoke with a start – there was a loud noise – shouting and running feet. Sebastian had been discovered. They'd find John now – but he wasn't certain he cared. He no longer felt entirely human. Just exhausted, dehydrated, in pain and unable to recognize the person who had bludgeoned a man to death. Or maybe John new that person too well...

"Find him!" It was Moriarty's voice. "Don't underestimate him like Sebastian clearly did." And you, John thought. YOU underestimated me too. "Shoot him on sight." 

"Yes, sir!" Footsteps clattered away. Two sets?

“You still want your breakfast, sir?” A woman’s voice. The cook.

“No! Yes… nothing too heavy, I’ll have it with Sherlock in his rooms.”

“Yes, sir.”

John waited. He wanted to hear Moriarty leave before he forced himself to his feet. And the cook, she would be close by, in the kitchen. John had to be careful. He had to gather his wits somehow. 

More footsteps. John put off moving. “James?” It was Sherlock.

“Cook is making breakfast.” Moriarty said distractedly. “It shouldn’t be long.”

“What happened here?” Sherlock asked. John knew that Sherlock could tell EXACTLY what had happened by looking at the scene. He must know where John was – or he would soon.

“You tell me.” Moriarty said, his voice frighteningly flat. “You’re the boffin at this sort of thing.”

“One assailant… crept up on Sebastian… here, while he was watching the security monitors, and attacked him with the cricket bat. There was a fight…” John could hear Sherlock sniffing from the next room. “Beer – Sebastian used the beer bottle as a weapon… and …that knife over there. At some point the assailant disarmed him and kicked the knife away. Sebastian was on his knees or crouched over when the killing blow took him. The assailant fled, leaving the bat behind… he went…that direction. Probably up the stairs.” 

“We both know who ‘the assailant’ is.”

“John.” There was a pause. “Don’t look at me like that, James. I told you he was handy to have around.”

“HE KILLED SEBASTIAN!”

“Obviously. Although from the smell down here, I’d say his isn’t the only body. Unless your cook is far less meticulous than I’ve given her credit for.”

There was an even longer pause. A pregnant pause. Then Moriarty laughed. “Dear Sherlock, you really are amazing. Yes, Sebastian had… a ‘special friend’ of John’s to play with. I don’t think you knew him. But John… John knew him…. intimately. Although not as intimately as Sebastian did in the end. I kept it to impress on John what he'd gotten himself into. Sebastian didn’t have a chance to dispose of it properly.”

“Mm. I assume you have someone else on the payroll who can tidy all this up? It will start smelling upstairs soon. When will breakfast be ready? I’m desperate for a coffee.”

John listened to them walk away – into the kitchen, he thought. Should he try to get up and sneak away? Find a better hiding place upstairs? Or should he wait until they had left this area entirely? John simply couldn’t decide. But he knew if he stayed here, someone would find him eventually. He had to move.

But sooner than he expected, the voices returned. They were lower, more intimate, John couldn’t make out the words. But he heard them enter the monitor room. 

“I’m not convinced.” Moriarty said – John could hear him perfectly now. 

“Well, it’s up to you.”

“You can’t really think John would work for me.”

“Why not? He’s always been pragmatic. And you have an opening.” 

Yes, John thought, hire me. Give me a gun. A real gun. Let’s see what happens.

“I don’t want your ex-lover underfoot.”

“He’s obviously moved on. New boyfriend and all.”

“I DID have him killed.”

“There is that.”

“I think I’ll just blow him up and have done with it.”

“As I said, it’s up to you, James. Can you do it from here?”

“Oh yes, I always carry the detonator.”

“It’s small enough?”

“Of course.”

“What if he’s in the house?”

“Do you think he is? He didn’t come after you. It’s more likely he’s gone in search of help.”

“Perhaps. He hasn’t done anything that you predicted, maybe he left the gun. Have you checked? If he had it, wouldn’t he have tried to shoot Sebastian?”

Their voices began to fade as they left the monitor room. “OH! James, I’m so clumsy. Did I spill your coffee?”

“No…” Moriarty sounded put out. 

“Then no harm done.” There was a longish pause. “For god’s sake, James. Do you STILL not trust me? Do you want me to turn out my pockets?”

“No, it’s not necessary.” Moriarty’s tone was friendlier. “I still have the detonator.”

“Dear James, I would never be so transparent.” And with that, their voices faded as their footsteps climbed the stairs.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAMF!


	11. My Dear Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stop me?" Moriarty's mood changed from aggrieved to amused in an instant. "My dear Sherlock, how are you going to stop me?"

John heard the most beautiful sound in the world: the cook climbing the stairs.

Now John HAD to move. It hurt, it hurt so much inside and out, like someone had taken a giant cheese grater and shredded his shoulder. John took a deep breath and tried to focus on exhaling, then another. He relegated the pain to the back of his mind – he couldn’t ignore it but he couldn’t consider it right now. He used the wall for balance as he shakily got to his feet. Dehydration and lack of calories were taking their toll. 

He made his way into the kitchen. It was big, a wooden table down the center, new appliances and antique cupboards side by side. John went directly to the refrigerator. He found what he was looking for, a carafe of orange juice. He drank half of it standing there with the fridge door open. Then he took it and the container of milk to a far corner of the kitchen, near the mud room. Keeping an ear perked for the cook’s return, he crouched down and drank the rest of the orange juice and then started on the milk. Before he finished, he hid the orange juice carafe and left the kitchen, milk in hand.

He felt better. The fluids were the best thing for him right now. Especially as he suspected he was a little feverish – he had a touch of that ‘Alice-Through-The-Looking-Glass’ feeling, a bit of unreality at the edges.

It wouldn’t take long after the cook returned to the kitchen to discover his theft. John had to get out of the servants’ hall. 

He ran up to the first floor – he could hear some movement on the other side of the door, but it wasn’t close. Quickly John secreted the milk where he’d hidden the extra weapons, behind the stairs. He picked up the sword. He left the pool cues and flip-flops. Then he ran, as silently as possible, up the stairs. He was half-way to the third floor when he heard someone enter the stairwell below. The cook returning to the kitchen? Most likely. He waited until he could no longer hear her then continued all the way up to the servants’ quarters. John slowed at the top and listened, trying to make certain the rooms were empty. He crept into the hallway.

John could hide in one of the empty rooms. There didn’t seem to be cameras in the servants’ areas. What WAS his plan. 

He went into the empty room farthest from the ones that were occupied and looked out the window. John wanted to get a sense of where they were. All that he could see were the uneven hills of the Welsh countryside. He searched for a farmhouse or a road – a barn, ANYTHING. To one side was forest, impenetrable from this vantage point. The lane from the house disappeared behind a hill. Everything else looked like scraggly, stony moors. Were there moors in this part of Wales? 

John crossed the hall and looked out on the other side of the house. More forest. More moors. No roads. No buildings that John could make out. There might be an entire village behind some of these hills and John would never know. And they wouldn’t know anything about Moriarty’s house.

He swore under his breath. John couldn’t hike to the closest house for help. He sagged against the wall. He was in no condition to face Moriarty. 

It made more sense to take a car anyway, John told himself. When he had Sherlock, they’d take a car.

Was that his plan? Find Sherlock and get out of here? He still didn’t know if Sherlock had what he needed to have Moriarty incarcerated for the rest of his life – because he NEEDED to be locked up for what he did to Stanley. 

That might be enough right there, Stanley’s body. Except Sebastian had killed Stanley and John had killed Sebastian.

Enough. Find Sherlock, preferably alone, and find out what Sherlock’s plan was. If he had one.

John crept into the loo. He found paracetamol in the medicine cabinet. He risked the pipes long enough to fill a tooth glass with water and swallowed more of the pills than was good for his stomach lining. He hoped it would get rid of the feverish feeling. If it took the edge off the shoulder pain, he’d take that too. 

John sighed. "Into battle.” He said to the familiar/unfamiliar face in the mirror.

John descended to the third floor and made a systematic search of the wing. He didn’t enter any of the rooms – if they had cameras, he wanted to avoid them. 

He found what he thought was Sebastian’s bedroom. The rest of the rooms were closed up, any furniture in them covered with sheets. John took the hallway to the main wing. There were two rooms on each side of the hall, a bedroom and adjoining sitting room. One was Sherlock’s – John recognized the clothes he’d worn yesterday. The other he thought must be Moriarty’s own. 

John started towards the stairs but froze when he heard someone moving. He listened at the doors – it came from Sherlock’s side, running water, clinking of glass against porcelain…

He wanted to run into the room and grab his husband. Instead he stood still until he could breathe again, then went and listened at Moriarty’s doors. All was silent. 

Only then did he carefully open the door to Sherlock’s bedroom. John could see him – his left arm, his hip – in the doorway of the en suite. The room was being watched, John couldn’t go in. It was torture.

“Sherlock.” He called softly. “Sherlock, it’s me. Don’t move – there’s a camera in your room.”

Sherlock had stiffened, but he remembered himself and continued with what he was doing – flossing his teeth, as it happened. He finished quickly and washed his hands. Then turned and looked at John. 

He gasped slightly – John knew how bad he looked, his face filthy, blood seeping through the baggy gray sweatshirt at his shoulder, bits of Sebastian’s blood dotting his front. He still wore the watch cap, it covered the cut on his forehead, but the bruising now extended to his eye, blackening it. 

“I’m fine – I will be fine.” John said. “Don’t give me away.” 

Sherlock walked grimly over to the closet and chose a shirt. He put it on over his vest and tucked it into his trousers. He pulled a jacket off a hanger and donned it as well. He paused at the mirror to straighten his cuffs and collar, to push a stray lock back into place, then he walked to the door, turned off the light and left the room.

“Can I …?” Sherlock asked holding out his arms, clearly worried about John’s wounded shoulder. 

John set the sword down on the floor and extended his good arm. “Yes! Carefully, but yes!” 

And Sherlock’s arms enveloped him. It hurt, but John DID NOT CARE. He had been craving this embrace since he’d been shot eight days ago. He felt tears fall from his eyes, he couldn’t stop them. Sherlock felt right. He smelled right. For a moment John felt better than he had in many days. 

“I’m so sorry.” Sherlock whispered. “I didn’t know he would go after you. I’ve been so afraid of losing you! My John.”

“Can we get out of here, now?” John asked. “Do you have enough on him? Can we just go?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank god.”

John turned his face up and Sherlock kissed him. He kissed his lips and his cheeks and his forehead. “John… John… my John…”

"You're such an idiot." John murmured.

"Yes, John..."

“Sherlock?” Moriarty’s voice rang out from the stairs.

John and Sherlock froze. Then John bent to retrieve the sword and Sherlock shielded John with his body.

He hadn’t seen them yet, but he would, as soon as he turned the corner on the stair.

Sherlock strode forward. “James?” John shrank back against the wall. There was nowhere to hide….except…

Sherlock trotted down the stairs. “I thought I’d spend some time refining the false DNA technique.” He said. “If you can spare me.” John thought he was trying to lead Moriarty down the stairs.

“Is that blood on your shirt?”

“Where? Oh, no, it looks like dirt. I was wrestling with the pipes this morning. Only cold water.” John closed his eyes. Whatever was on Sherlock’s shirt, it had rubbed off from him. “I should change.” John heard a familiar noise. “Dear James, what is the gun for?” Sherlock asked, an edge of impatience in his voice.

“I want to believe you, Sherlock. Let’s go upstairs together.”

“This is really getting tiresome, James.”

“Indulge me. I’ve been on edge since your Doctor Watson escaped.”

Sherlock sighed. John heard them walking up the stairs together. He had slipped into Moriarty’s bedroom, gambling that there weren’t cameras in the master’s suite.

He heard a door being flung open. “Go ahead.” Sherlock said. “Search my rooms, if you must."

John backed away from the door, looking around for someplace to hide in Moriarty’s room. But he was too late, the door swung open and Moriarty stood there pointing his gun at John. “Ah, Doctor Watson. Finally. Drop the sword, please.”

John dropped it. It clattered to the floor - along with all of his hopes for escape.

Moriarty gestured with the gun. “If you please.” 

John walked out of the room and into the hall. He felt utterly exhausted. He looked at Sherlock, but he was focused on Moriarty. 

“Downstairs, Doctor Watson. No sudden movements or I’ll be forced to shoot you. Again. Sherlock, walk beside him.”

John headed down the stairs. Sherlock caught up to him and they marched grimly to the second floor. 

“The sitting room, I think.” Moriarty said. Sherlock led John to one of the doors and they went it. It was the same room where he had been tied up in the closet – his chair and bindings still lay in view. John looked at it dully. 

Sherlock walked to the far side of the room and stood beside the bookshelves. John joined him. Moriarty advanced on them, gun cocked and ready.

“Can you explain, dear Sherlock, why the blood on your shirt matches up exactly with the blood on Doctor Watson’s face? No, never mind. As amusing as your explanation might be, I’m done wasting time.” Moriarty paced back and forth restlessly. “How could you choose HIM?” He cried, pointing the gun at John.

Sherlock just shrugged. 

"You are so magnificent! And he's... nothing. WHY?!"

"There's no point trying to explain, James. You'll never understand."

"Think of everything we could have accomplished together."

"You don't want me. You never wanted ME." Sherlock said. "You wanted me to be you."

"Then why come here, Sherlock?" Moriarty cried bitterly. "Why break my heart?" 

"Because someone needed to stop you."

"Stop me?" Moriarty's mood changed from aggrieved to amused in an instant. "My dear Sherlock, how are you going to stop me?"

"I have enough evidence - more than enough -" Sherlock said, smoothing his suit coat with his hands. "To put you away for the rest of your life"

"You have nothing! I've been too careful."

"You have been known to underestimate people." John said mildly.

Moriarty answered with a snarl so bestial in its ferocity that John took a step backwards. 

But Moriarty had already forgotten him - Sherlock had smoothed his jacket again, one handed this time.

"What do you have in your pockets?" Moriarty asked. 

Sherlock spread his palms out. "Nothing." He said.

Moriarty narrowed his eyes. "What is it? A thumb drive? A smartphone?"

A magic ring of invisibility? John thought feeling hysterical. That WOULD be handy right now.

"I don't have anything."

"Show me!" Moriarty demanded. Sherlock prepared to reach into his pockets. "Wait!" Moriarty cried. He took three steps back towards the door, then another. He pointed the gun at John. "Slowly." He said.

Sherlock nodded placidly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the detonator.

"NO!" Moriarty screamed - but Sherlock had already pushed the button.

The closet exploded. John saw Moriarty picked up by the blast then Sherlock grabbed him and shoved him against the wall. The agony in his shoulder took over and he was just barely aware of Sherlock trying to shield him from the worst of it. 

Then Sherlock was patting his face. "John! John!" He sounded very far away even though his face was only inches above John.

John blinked and tried to sit up. Sherlock helped him. That's when he saw what was left of Moriarty. He had been standing near the closet door when the gun inside exploded. Bits of metal and wooden chair had torn through him, killing him instantly. Pieces of him were all over that side of the room.

"I have to call Mycroft." Sherlock said, still sounding far away. "Before any of Moriarty's men find us. "Can you walk?"

John could, with assistance. Sherlock took them away from the blast site, to the other wing of the house. He looked at the stairs.

"I don't think so, Sherlock." John said. 

Sherlock guided them quickly to a TV room. "The henchmen use this as a recreation area." Sherlock said. He sat John in a chair and picked up the landline. He unerringly punched in a long set of numbers, and then four more.

"Brother!" Sherlock said. He listened briefly then answered: "Wales. I'm certain your people can pinpoint exactly where. Send a helicopter, John needs to be in hospital ASAP." He listened again. "Mycroft, John NEEDS emergency care NOW. Serious care. Send a helicopter! NOW! ...All right... Goodbye."

John was so tired. He closed his eyes - Sherlock would take care of him now. But Sherlock shook him. "Open your eyes John!" He demanded. You're concussed, you have to stay awake. John! Come on, let's stand up." He got underneath John's good arm and hauled him upright. "Let's take a walk." Sherlock walked him around the room and kept him awake until the chopper arrived 30 minutes later.

 

\---

 

The first thing John heard when he woke was Sherlock's voice. 

"Where is John's doctor!?" Sherlock demanded. "John will want to know how the surgery went!"

John smiled internally. Here was the pit bull John knew and loved, the one he'd missed so much in Germany. And had needed. He DID want to know how the surgery had gone.

His bullet wound had become infected during his time in Moriarty's house. John had scepticemia, blood poisoning from the infection. He'd been an hour from death when he was wheeled into the hospital. He barely had time to say a delirious goodbye to Sherlock before he was rushed into surgery.

"Sherlock?" John asked. And Sherlock was there, holding his hand.

"I'm right here, John."

John smiled weakly. "Good." He said.

 

\----

 

John was in hospital in Wales for another eight days. He'd needed two more surgeries, one to remove more of the dying tissue around his bullet wound and another to screw his humerus and scapula to metal plates, ensuring they would heal properly. He could feel some of the screw heads under his skin. It was bizarre. 

He knew he would have a long rehabilitation. John might never regain full strength and range of motion in that shoulder. But he'd try.

Mycroft had made things right with the Army. They no longer considered him AWOL and were moving forward with his medical discharge - about which Sherlock simply couldn't contain his glee.

Several days after the last surgery, John was starting to feel human again. The antibiotics and painkillers were finally being reduced a bit and he was able to eat solid food. Sherlock had been by his side the entire time, holding his hand, hunting down doctors, alienating the nurses... John had noticed this morning that Sherlock was still wearing the dirty crumpled suit he'd had on during the explosion. 

"Sherlock... have you changed your clothes in the last week?" John asked. "Have you had a wash?"

"John! When would I have had time for that?!"

John couldn't suppress a smile. "Now." He said. "Now is the time. They gave me some scrubs to wear - in the drawer, take them. Throw that suit away and take a long shower!"

Sherlock had. He spent forty minutes in the shower and came out damp and pink and smelling like hospital soap.

"I think you're finally feeling better." Sherlock said.

"I am."

"How much better?" Sherlock asked, caressing John's thigh under the blanket.

"Oh..." John said - then Sherlock's fingers had brushed his cock and he felt himself harden. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows encouragingly and took it in hand. 

"Does the door lock?" John asked.

"Oh yes. And there's petroleum jelly in the toilet."

John was full hard now, Sherlock's hand fisting him.

"What are you waiting for then? Methamphetamine?"

Sherlock laughed and went to lock the door. He came back with the jar of Petroleum Jelly. He leaned over John's good side and kissed him. John ran his hand down Sherlock's ribs and he shivered.

"It's been so long." Sherlock breathed, kissing him again. Then he pulled back the blanket. John's erection lay against his belly, fat and pink and starting to weep.

"Suck it." John said. 

Sherlock smiled and dove down, capturing John's cock in his mouth and tonguing the slit. He moaned and took more into his mouth, he bobbed up and down, taking more and then sinking down until his nose pressed against John's thigh. 

"Oh god." John sighed.

Sherlock continued, bobbing and sucking, running his tongue under the sensitive head. Then he pulled off. "I need you." Sherlock said and kissed John's chest, near the sling.

John picked up the petroleum jelly, a question on his face. "It's been a while." He said. "You'll need to... relax."

Sherlock had untied the drawstring on the pants. He kissed John's lips as he stepped out of them, pushed the jar of lubricant aside. "I did it in the shower." He whispered. "Got myself all ready for you."

"Oh, Jesus." John murmured. "That's so hot!"

Sherlock carefully climbed on the bed and straddled John's hips. "Tell me if this jostles your shoulder too much." He said.

John was already gripping Sherlock's thigh. "It won't!" He said. "Get to it!"

Sherlock trembled a little at the command and lifted John's cock upright and lined it up with his hole. He sat slowly, wriggling a bit to take the fat, flaring head. Then he eased himself down until he sat on John's thighs.

"Fuck yourself on my cock." John said. 

Sherlock lifted himself up and sank back down with a moan.

"Oh, it's been so long." John said as Sherlock continued to rise and fall. "Yes, ride my cock. Faster." He said, and Sherlock complied, leaning over and gripping the bed for traction.

John took hold of Sherlock's prick and jacked it along with Sherlock's rhythm. "I'm not going to last long." John said. 

Sherlock's face looked uncertain. "I need..."

"I've got you." John said, curling his arm around Sherlock's waist to hold him still. Then he dug his heels into the bed and pistoned his hips up into Sherlock's arse, fast and hard. 

"Oh! Yes! Fuck me, John! Fuck me. Yes!! OH!" And Sherlock came, shooting wildly, hitting the wall over John's head, John's chin and his sling. Sherlock's face was transformed, a halo of ecstasy shrouding his features. He shuddered and his muscles contracted around John's cock.

Johnhe felt himself cross the line, felt the inevitability, felt himself shoot inside his beautiful husband. "Yes! Ung!" He cried, pulling Sherlock close and juddering uncontrollably. 

When he was spent he ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and pulled him down for a kiss. "Look at you! You're so beautiful." John told him. "Lie down with me." Sherlock slid over next to John on his uninjured side and curled up, his head on John's shoulder. He pulled the blanket over them.

"You fit into my arms. I've missed you." John muttered.

"Don't leave me again, John." Sherlock whispered. "Please."

"I won't." John said. "As long as you don't EVER go off again without backup. Promise me - you'll never go in alone."

"I promise." Sherlock said. "I love you, John."

John kissed his forehead. "I love you, idiot. Let's get some sleep."

They drifted off together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed my fic!


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